University of Virginia Library

LAUNCELOT AND GUENEVERE A POEM IN DRAMAS

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The following Schema and Commentary were included at the beginning of Volume V.

SCHEMA AND COMMENTARY Written by Richard Hovey in 1898

SCHEMA.

Launcelot and Guenevere: A Poem in Dramas.

Part I.—

• The Quest of Merlin: a Masque.
• The Marriage of Guenevere: a Tragedy.
• The Birth of Galahad: a Romantic Drama.

Part II.—

• Taliesin: a Masque.
• The Graal: a Tragedy.
• Astolat: an Idyllic Drama.

Part III.—

• Fata Morgana: a Masque.
• Morte d'Arthur: a Tragedy.
• Avalon: a Harmonody.

COMMENTARY.

Note that each of the three parts is composed of (1) a Masque, i. e., a musical (operatic) interlude or prelude, foreshadowing the events to follow, dealing with the supernatural elements of the myth and symbolizing the philosophic, aesthetic and ethical elements of the series; (2) a Tragedy; and (3) a play ending with a partial (Parts I and II) or complete (Part II) reconciliation and solution.

Launcelot and Guenevere are placed in a position where they must either sacrifice the existing order of things to themselves or themselves to the existing order of things.

Part I.—They attempt to set their relation to each other above their relation to the world. Tragic issue. (Thesis.)

Part II.—They attempt to set their relation to the world above their relation to each other. Equally tragic issue. (Antithesis.)

Part III.—The reconciliation. (Synthesis.)

Subordinate to this, as background:

Part I deals with the growing power of the Round Table, the rise of Arthur, and culminates with Arthur's highest reach of empire.

(Great event in the legends The Roman War.)

Part II with the height (stationary) of the power of Arthur and the Round Table and the first mutterings of their impending fall.

(Great event in the legends The Quest of the Graal.)

Part III with the fall of Arthur and the Round Table.

(Great event in the legends The Last War.)

There is an interval of nearly twenty years between Parts I and II, and of five or six years between Parts II and III.

But the dramas in each part are immediately successive.

The Masques:

The Quest of Merlin foreshadows the events of the whole poem, but particularly of Part I, i. e., the marriage of Arthur to Guenevere. Symbolically, it suggests the philosophical drift of the poem.

Taliesin foreshadows the events of Part II (the Graal search, etc.). Symbolically, it suggests the aesthetic drift of the poem.

Fata Morgana foreshadows the events of Part III (the treachery of Mordred, death of Arthur, etc.). Symbolically, it suggests the ethical drift of the poem.

They might be called “the Masque of Fate and Evolution,” “the Masque of Art” and “the Masque of Evil” respectively.

The Plays:

Part I—Individual and sex relation (true family) set above Society or the State:

(a) Marriage of Guenevere—(Love overthrowing friendship as well as more general social obligations);

(b) Birth of Galahad—(Love still supreme, but seeking and partly finding a way to be loyal to friendship and the State, too.

Part I, Tragic; (a) all tragic; (b) partly reconciliated.

Part II—Society and the State set above the individual and sex relation or true family:

(a) The Graal—(Love renounced; religion sought as means of renunciation. Failure of attempt.);

(b) Astolat—(Gradual reconquest of love over religion, etc., etc.).

Part II, Tragic; (a) all tragic; (b) partly reconciled.

Part III—Reconciliation of Religion, State, Society, Family, and Individual:

(a) Morte d'Arthur—(Essential conflict made objective and settled with the sword. Tragic solution of Death.);

(b) Avalon—(True harmonic solution).

Part III, Harmonic; (a) tragic; (b) completely harmonic or reconciled.

1. I. THE QUEST OF MERLIN

A MASQUE

PERSONS.

• Merlin.

Beneath Hecla.

• Urd The Norn.
• Verdande The Norn.
• Skuld The Norn.

In Avalon.

• Argente.
• Nimue.
• Eight other Maidens.
• Sylphs.
• Gnomes.
• Naiads.
• Dryads.
• Pan.
• Bacchus.
• Fauns.
• Satyrs.
• Maenads and Bassarids.
• Mab.
• Puck.
• Oberon.
• Titania.
• Ariel.
• Fairies.
• Elves.
• Goblins.
• Aphrodite.
• The Loves.
• The Valkyrs.
• The Angels.

Interior of a cavern in the bowels of the earth, beneath Mount Hecla. Huge rock-fragments, amid which twists tortuously a great root of the tree Yggdrasil. A flickering flame, by the light of which are seen the Norns, colossal but shadowy shapes, about a gigantic but indistinct Loom. Dull, heavy sounds, out of which arises a strange music, which resolves itself continually into imperfect harmonies, which leave the heart in unrest. A sense of striving and struggle beats through the music.
The Norns.

[A low, foreboding roll of thunder.—Merlin appears on a jutting crag in the cave, with a forked wand in his hand.—The flame flashes into sudden brilliancy, sharply defining the rocky walls of the cavern, but at once sinks back into its former weak and flickering indistinctness.—The Norns remain motionless, noting none of these things, nor do they actually perceive Merlin at any time.]
Merlin.
Hail!
Ye monstrous Glooms!
Formless Forms!
Known and Unknown!
To what avail
Through strifes and storms,
Athwart the Sea that bellows and booms
In the ear
With the threatening of dire dooms,
Strove I once alone
In the starless vast of the night of fear,
Dread Queens, to behold your throne?
Lo, all that passes
From your touch takes shape,
Yet in you I find not any shape at all.
Dimly the dusk glasses
To the view
Shadows that fall
Into the Void; the Verities escape.
Without you seeing is not nor thought,
But you—
Woe! I discern you not.

Urd.
Sisters, how should a man's eyes see the Void?

Verdande.
Shadows of clouds he scans on a searchless sea.

Skuld.
Between two Deeps a film of mist that shifts!

Merlin.
Shadowy ones!
Ye whom my eyes have seemed to see
Many times in the weary years!
Deeper and darker the riddle appears;
Muddier the river runs.
What are ye, Darknesses? Whence have ye risen?
Are ye or seem ye? What is it to seem or to be?
With the same awe I re-behold you
As when I first clave o'er the unroadwayed sea
And through the cavernous darks of Hecla's womb
The way to Odin's tomb—
To your earth-bound prison.

Verdande.
The shuttle flies. The noise of men far off
Breaks faintly on our ears like distant surf.

Merlin.
Prison, I call it, I hold you—
You, the Resistless, Monarchs of Days—
As verily slaves as we.
Slaves of the stone sceptre your own hands wield
Over the weirds of the world—
Or of some mightier Silence whose ways
I find not without me revealed
Nor within me enfurled.

Urd.
I hear a voice above the noise of men,
Like a bird's thin shriek shrilling o'er the surf.

Merlin.
Ever thus!
I pass and return,
But ye remain ever the same.
I see the weft wax and the pale flame burn;
I hear dark words and ominous:
But never to me ye turn;
Me ye call not by name.

Skuld.
The surf booms on, the billows break and cease,
And the gull's cry dissolves into the wind.

Merlin.
Answer my thought!
Ye have answered before,—
So mightily wrought
My strenuous lore.
By the wand in my hand
I command you to show
All the veils may conceal,
That it ails me to know.
Man and wife, is it weal?
Man and wife, is it woe?
Ye see not the wand;
Ye see not the mage:
As two straws in your hand
Are the fool and the sage.
Ye know not I utter;
Ye know not ye heed;
But the words that ye mutter
Shall answer my need.
Speak!

Verdande.
Woe to the maiden, for her doom is dark!

Skuld.
Woe to the knight! His thread is stained with blood.

Urd.
Woe to the Prince! For a witless fault great woe!

Merlin.
Alas! for all mortals
Sorrow sits waiting.
Man, hesitating,
Into the Future peers.
From the dark portals
Issue the Fears.

Verdande.
Weal for the lovers, after many days!

Urd.
Ay, but they first shall sail a bitter sea!

Skuld.
Weal for the King, but not till the kingdom pass!

Merlin.
Weal and woe!
A dark saying!
Yeaing and naying!
How shall I know?

Urd.
The seer and the seeing and the seen—
Are not these three things known and yet unknown?

Verdande.
To live is better far than not to live—
Yea, and to live is worse than not to live.

Skuld.
The womb—the tomb—and each of these is all—
And he that acts, is wise and is unwise.

Merlin.
A womb and a tomb!
No more?

Verdande.
Who weds this woman hath a royal wife.

Urd.
Behold the man she loves, a king of men!

Skuld.
Each man must choose his wife and bide his lot.

Merlin.
She loves the Prince!—
A queenly one!—
Whom else should he wed?
Who else should share his throne?
Daughters of Time! ye speak and convince.
I have chosen a way to tread.

Urd.
Marriage the calm gods give, a crown of life;
Marriage we give, not they, a kissing curse.

Merlin.
A rhymeless Rune—
Is and Is Not.
Solve me the riddle!
Is there no overword?

Verdande.
Darkness and light ring round the globe of things,
And each pursues the other as it flies.

Merlin.
Know ye the wand?
With the wand I compel you.

Skuld.
A Dragon slaying forever a deathless Queen!
There is no wit in us to make this clear.

Merlin.
Not in you?
Where then? In myself?

[He strikes his own forehead with the wand.— A black formless mark appears on his brow. —He falls in a swoon.]
The Norns.

[As the Norns sing, the scene becomes more and more indistinct, until, at the last stanza, their words issue from utter darkness.—A confused sound, like a low rumbling. Then

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a clear tenor voice is heard singing: “Nonne anima plus est quam esca; et corpus plus quam vestimentum?”—A ray of light breaks through the darkness, and now the song of the Sylphs is heard. The light grows brighter, until, when the Sylphs cease singing, the scene is completely illuminated. —It is a grove, with a Greek temple in the background. Merlin lies, still in his swoon, upon the ground.—The Norns have disappeared, and beautiful figures, in classic drapery, pass in and out among the trees.]
Sylphs.

Gnomes
[beneath, unseen].

Naiads
[in a stream in the background].

Angels
[above, in a burst of sunlight].
Glory to God in the highest!
Osanna! Osanna!
Behold, His dwelling is the Sun
And the glory thereof His open doors.
He and the blue of heaven are one
And the Sea's dædal-paven floors.
He is the Beholden;
With Him to be is to be seen;
Without Him spring were never green
Nor autumn golden;
By Him the nerves of sight are stirred;
Beside Him there is nought but Night;
He uttereth His eternal word,
“Let there be light,” and there is light.
Glory to God in the highest!
Osanna! Osanna!

[The Angels disappear, soaring upward; the Naiads sink under the waters; and the Sylphs fade into the air.]
Merlin
[awakening].
Sweet goddess, raise thy veil! ... A dream, a dream!
Methought that I was in the utter night.
So black it was, sight was not, nay, nor thought—
Only a sense of falling. Suddenly
A great light shone about me and a form,
As of a potent goddess, moved across
The circle of my sight. Queen-like, she wore
A threefold crown, and in her hand she kept
A mirror wherein, wonderfully glassed,
Meseemed I saw the mystery of things—
Wried in a sort but rimmed about with wonder.
And by her side there crawled a shackled slave
That kissed the mirror. From her head there fell
A veil that clad whatever form she bore
In awful folds, so that I could not see
If she were fair or foul. Yet from her gait
A sound came singing, as it were the voice
Of many dulcimers. Whereat I cried
Aloud and woke... What vale is this? The leaves
Show not the tiniest mote-fleck of decay.
Each little grass-blade—ay, the very mushrooms,
Perfect as in a poet's thought of them!
My boyhood's dream of what the world might be!
Ah me! I dream still. This is a sweet nothing—
The phantasmagory of a thought-crazed brain.
I am too old to cheat myself with dreams.
I have dropped my plummet into the great deeps,
But nowhere found I this. It is a dream...
What eyes are those that peer between the leaves
With laughter in their looking? Do I see
Or do I dream I see brown beautiful arms
And breasts half-hidden by the russet gown,
A-shift like jack-a-lanterns in the trees?

Dryads
[half-seen in the trees].

Merlin.
Something is stirring in the leaves, but what
My old eyes grow too misty to make out.
I catch a sound of singing, but the words
Escape me. Alas! the wisdom of the old
Is like a miser's hoard—laid up with toil
To lavish on a mistress—she being dead,
The old man counts his useless treasure over,
More joyless that it once had brought such joy.

[Enter a rout of Fauns, crowned with ivy and vine leaves, and dancing and singing to the sound of their tambourines. As they sing, they make mops and mows at Merlin.]
Fauns.
Hear the crickets chirrup!
Jolly little fellows!
Summer's in the stirrup
In his reds and yellows.
The bumble-bee hangs over
The honey-hearted clover—
Lazy, drunken rover!
Buzz! buzz! buzz!

A Faun.
Foxes in the poultry-yard,
Making free with chickens!
Crows in the cornfield,
Pecking like the dickens!

[Enter Pan and Satyrs, with Pan-pipes.]
Pan.
Pipe! pipe!
For it's merry to live in the shade—
To lunch on the hillside under the trees,
To munch lush figs and oranges
And crunch fat pig-nuts, lying at ease,
Looking over the summer seas.

Satyrs.
Pipe! pipe!
For it's merry to live in the shade!

Fauns and Satyrs
[softly, as Pan pipes].
Hist! list!
While the great god Pan pipes sweetly.
Whist! all whist!
His fingers ripple featly
Over the oaten keys—
A noise as of many trees
And of all sweet sounds together,
Brooks that laugh in the intervales,
Birds and bees in the dreaming dales,
The cool breeze whispering low all-hails
Over the sunlit heather
In the sleepy summer weather.
Hist! hist!

[Pan sits by the river, surrounded by Satyrs. The Fauns gather about Merlin. The scene becomes cloudier.]
Bassarids
[without].
On the height to-night—
Speed the news, speed the news!
Sting and smite
The wind with a tempest of shrill halloos!—
When the lynx is abroad and the red moon shines
Through the rents in the roof of the raftered pines,
And the black clouds rise from the muttering east
And the hot winds storm from the tremulous south,
There shall be the pale foam of passionate faces a-surge
With a sea-like iterant urge,
Round the fire and the feast,
And the red blood shall be smirched on the blood-red mouth.
Halloo! Halloo!
There's a feast afoot.
The torrent howls like a hungry brute
And the owls shriek—Tu-whoo! tu-whoo!

Fauns
[about Merlin].
Tickle his ear!
Tickle his nose!
Hey, old wrinkle-face, isn't it queer?
Sneeze, now—sneeze—ah!—there she goes!

[Enter Bassarids, with cymbals, noisily. As they sing, Bacchus appears in a car drawn by leopards. He is surrounded by Mænads, bearing beakers of wine.]
Bassarids.
Hark! the lean wolf yelps!
And his eyes are red balls in the dark;
And the whine of the she-bear's whelps
Wails on the wind—hark!
Hasten, Sun, to the dolphining west!
Speed, black Night, from the hooded east!
Bring to our nostrils the smell of the feast!
Bring the locks unbound and the limbs released
And the tigerish lover that bites the breast!
The torn red flesh and the beakers of blood!
And the riot and rush through the maddening wood!
Hark! the wolf! U-lu-lo! U-lu-lo!

Bacchus.

Mænads.
Wine, ho! Clink, clink!
—The goblets chime.
Wine, ho! Drink, drink!
So we conquer time.
Time lies drunk among the reeds,
Sleeping off his evil deeds.

Bacchus.
Let the future brood and bode
Let the past go spinning!
Pluck the roses by the road,
You'll find them worth the winning.
Let the tipsy days go by,
Take their gifts! Let them go!
Laugh back at the laughing sky,
And when the storm-winds blow—ho, ho!
And when the storm-winds blow,
Outdin the thunder-throated skies
With tumult of your revelries!

Mænads.
Wine, ho! wine, ho!
Through the veins a-laughing,
Like a sparkle on the flow
Of the upland brooks that go
Seaward wavering—swift, slow!
Wine, ho! wine, ho!
The god pours out his life-blood so
That madmen may be quaffing.

[The Satyrs, Bassarids, and Fauns crowd about Bacchus and produce cups which they fill from his exhaustless wine-skins. The Fauns drag Merlin to the centre and crown him with vine-leaves. The Mænads caress him and ply him with wine.]
Mænads.
Come, old wherefore-seeker,
Let the Fates go flying!
See within the beaker
Joy imprisoned lying,
Like a sunbeam taken
In a roguish eye!
Drink! let life awaken
And grave-mold wisdom die!
Thought is gray and life is green—
These are what men choose between.

Full Chorus.
Wine, ho! wine, ho!
See it foam and flash—yeo-heigh!
Wine, ho! wine, ho!
Let the cymbals clash!
The deep hill-gorges
Buffet back our orgies.
The heart throbs quicker, quicker,
With a lightning-leap of mirth,
As the madness of the liquor
Turns the blood to flaming ichor
And makes music of the earth.
See the crags shake to and fro,
Toppling to the lake below!
Wine, ho! wine, ho!
Yeo-heigh! merrily, merrily.

A Faun.
Thy lips are teasing to be kissed.

A Mænad.
Kiss me, then, but catch me first.

A Satyr.
Love dries up my throat like thirst.
Let me clasp thee as I list!

A Bassarid.
The swift fire slays me.

Satyr.
Joy! she wavers.

Another Faun.
Leave us, goat-heels! She's for me.

Bassarid.
Fight it out! We like to see
Battles for our favors.

Fauns and Satyrs.
The garments slipping in the dance
Show here a breast and there a thigh.

Bassarids.
The wild beast glares in every glance.

Mænads.
There are shady coverts nigh.

[Exeunt Fauns and Satyrs tumultuously, chasing Mænads and Bassarids. Bacchus, laughing, follows them leisurely in his car. Merlin attempts to follow, but falls tipsily. The scene lightens.]
Pan.
O river rippling at my feet
Among the reeds and rushes!
O leaves that lisp applause to greet
The thrilling of the thrushes!
Some prescience of the reedy life hushes the noisy stream,
And whispering leaf to leaf, the listening bushes of bird-songs dream.
[Exit Pan.

Angels
[above, unseen].

[A pause. Enter Mab and Fairies.]
Fairies.

[A dance of Fairies.]
Mab.
Quick, fairies, to the river and scoop up
With shell-like hands a shower of watery pearls
To sprinkle on this ancient tippler here.

A Fairy.
What see I here? Am I so beautiful?
My Queen, look how the water glasses us.

[The Fairies are absorbed in the contemplation of their reflection in the water. Enter Puck

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and Goblins; afterward Oberon, Titania, and the Elves.]
Goblins.
In the night,
Guided by uncertain torches
That affright
Luck-belated travellers,
We delight
To pass beyond the porches
Of the templed universe,
To explore with midnight lore
Secrets hidden from the sun—
To seek the many in the one—
Whether the elements be four
Or more—
How the rose blooms and grows,
With what blood its petal glows—
What meat doth it eat
In the eyeless underground.
Sure, some rare thing's to be found,
If we could but fathom it.
So we delve in doleful places
For its traces,
Where the dead lie inurned
And the paint rots from fair faces,
And the armor crumbles with rust,
And the body is returned
To its elemental dust.

Puck.
Ugk-gnn! Ugk-gnn! What a lugubrious chant!
You're not a whit better than so many frogs
That croak at eve in some o'ershadowed pool.
Why, what a mumbling is here of churchyards! Bats' blood!
We're in Avalon now. Be a little gayer. Surely,
We haven't entirely forgotten to be merry.
For my part, I have small taste for skulls, unless
They be sawn across and mounted for drinking-cups.
Give me a pumpkin every time, with holes
For eyesockets and nostrils, and a candle
To make you think the Devil himself is in it.

[The Goblins have begun suddenly to dig in the ground. Out of it they produce a shining metal.]
Goblins.
Lo, here! Behold
What the earth doth hold!
Out of the clay
A brightness we bring,
Better than gold,
To the air and the day.
It is moonlight made
A substantial thing—
A splendor laid
Under the dark mould,
By witless gnomes in the days of old.

[As the Goblins throw the metal up out of the earth, the Elves take it and build of it a bridge over the stream.]
Elves.

Puck.

And in that condition, he perceives that marvellous structure you are so proud of, but as a thin line of light in the eastern sky, though it is already high noon. To the inspired vision of this bacchanalian wisdom here, everything is upside down, the trees gambol and pirouette, and the unintelligent ripples wink gravely and confidentially. He sees our heads where our heels are, and our heels where our heads are, our virtues as vices, and vice versa.

Titania.

Oberon.
Where's Ariel? His wand shall change
This structure that my elves have wrought,
To something far beyond their thought,
It is a miracle so strange.

Puck.
You never do a thing yourself.
But some poor devil of an elf
Is made through weary leagues to beat
His wings or run on restless feet,
While you lie dreaming in the wood,
Lapped in inactive lassitude,
Wrapped like Morgana in the mist—
Sometimes I think you don't exist.

Oberon.
Whimsiest of the fairy brood,
I cannot scold you if I would.
But keep a rein on what you say;
When I command, even you obey,
Who more than all delight to shirk.
I give the law, ye do the work.

[Ariel has appeared on the bridge, which is completed.]
Ariel.
Far away I heard your call,
Lord and master of us all.
By your wishing I was caught
In the shadow-land of thought,
Where the midnight and the day
Mingle in a twilight gray,
Through which wander here and there
Wondrous fantasies of air,
Throngs of thewless Anakim,
Cities half-discerned, and dim
With a rosy veil of mist
Spreading into amethyst.
There that golden country lies,
Sometimes seen of mortal eyes
As a vision in the skies.
Wretches in the desert straying
See its silver fountains playing,
Hasten forward to their slaying;
For the hungry lion lies
Couched beneath the brazen skies,
And the vision faints and dies.
And the simple sailor flees
From the trancèd ships he sees,
Glamour of diableries.
But the graybeards smile and say,
“Arthur's sister, Morgan Fay,
Is in elfinland at play.
Trust her not, for she entices
Sagest wits with her devices.
Lo, this is not what it seems.”
—Yet it ne'er could haunt their dreams,
If it did not somewhere stand
On the firm unshifting land.
Thence I come and thither go.
Master, what you will I know,
And I do your bidding—so!

[He touches the bridge with his wand. It is transfigured and becomes the rainbow-bridge, Bifrost, reaching from earth to heaven. The entire fairy rout march up and out of sight, singing.]
[Enter Aphrodite and the Loves.]
Loves.

[The Valkyrs appear, descending Bifrost.]
Valkyrs.

Loves.
What strange goddesses these, slender, with streaming hair,
Clean-limbed, vigorous, tall, fair as the pine is fair?
Lithe, strong, virginal forms treading with martial gait
Down yon sevenfold arch, resolute, stern, elate?
Lo, their helmets upcast splendors that stream to heaven,
Seven lights from the bridge, up from the helmets seven!
Conquest sleeps in their eyes, victory binds their brows,
Strength lies still on their lips, waiting till wars arouse.
Whence and why do they come, halting before our Queen?
What have we for their wills, passionless and serene?
Yet are they wondrous fair, fair in a sweet, strange wise,
With the sunlight in their hair and the blue sky in their eyes.

Valkyrs.
Lo, the Goddess we seek!
The Queen from the South!
Lo, her delicate cheek!
Her adorable mouth!
Her eyes that are limpid with laughters, and sparkle
as springs never dried by a drouth!
O gentleness, bending
With royal reserve!
O queenliness blending
With languors that swerve
Down the sweep of the lines of imperial limbs, that,
stately and splendid of curve,
Rise poised like the calla,
Superb in its grace!
The gods in Valhalla,
O Queen, are a-gaze
With the rapture of rumors that reach them and rouse
them to look on the light of thy face!
Come, then, and o'er us
Thy radiance throw!
In the heart of our chorus
Let love lie aglow,
As the breath of the brief northern summer that
wakens the May-flowers under the snow.

Aphrodite.
Maidens and gods and messengers of gods,
I see you fair and goodly and made bright
With flashing armor and with floating hair.
Not otherwise of old I saw the queen,
Hippolyta, whom yet for all her spears
I made to follow where at first she fled,
Compelling to rebellious loyalty,
Subduing her proud will to Theseus' love,
Even as the smiling of the sun subdues.
For strength is good, but strength that knows not love
Is as a random archer in the dark,
And many shafts are shot whose flight is vain,
And some work evil. Yet not this alone—
Ye bring me gifts as I bring gifts to you.
Love without will and might of the strong arm
Is bitterness and ashes of dead fruit.
Be my attendants, then; I need your spears.

Loves and Valkyrs.

[Exeunt, singing, over the bridge Bifrost.]
[Enter Argente and eight Maidens, crowned with wreaths and carrying garlands in their hands.]
Maidens.

Merlin.
If that thou be a spirit, or a dream,
Or but a wonder of sweet maidenhood,
I know not. But, I pray thee, maid or dream
Or spirit, be as gracious as thy looks.
I am a man much worn with years and sorrows.
Hither have I come I know not how, and where
I am I know not. Guide me hence, I pray,
—Or, since thou seemest attended as a queen,
Bid one of these thy servants go with me
And set my feet upon some way that leads
To many-towered Camelot. There I dwell
And serve King Arthur, counselling his reign.

Argente.
Thou sayest; I am a queen. But I reign not in the fashion that thou deemest;
Neither are these servants, but my kinswomen, among whom I am crowned by love only,
Service with service exchanging, their least with my most counted equal.
One, not unknown to thee, Merlin, is near, the ninth of my maidens,
And she, when she cometh, shall conduct thee whithersoever thou wilt. The way is
Not long to the battlements of Camelot, though long from Camelot hither.

Merlin.
I know not how thou knowest my name, and yet
With many marvels I am so distraught
That I no longer gape at anything.
Who art thou, lady, and what place is this?

Argente.
I am the Lady of the Lake, and this is the valley of Avalon.
The violets of spring and the roses of summer and the fruitage of autumn
Here burgeon together, and the North here mingles with the South and is lost in it
As a lover is that lingers in the arms of his mistress till he swoons and is one with her.
Once hitherto hast thou seen me, O Merlin, when Nimue the water-witch
Sent thee with Arthur to the lake-shore, for a gift that should gain him his kingdom;
And there clave through the sheen of the shield that the lake holds up to the heaven
An arm for the boss of it that bare the great brand, Excalibur, and brandished it;
And Arthur with a cry sprang down to the shore where a light skiff lay for his using
And leaped to the oars, and the boat shot forward like the darting of a kingfisher,
Swift-sent by the urge of his eagerness out into the serene fire-splendor,
Till it stopped in the centre a-quiver as an arrow is that strikes in a target.
Then from my hands he received it.—But lo, she comes—Nimue!
[Enter Nimue.]
Hail, sister!

Nimue.
Hail, my Queen!

Merlin.
What, the beautiful Nimue!

Nimue.
Welcome to Avalon, Master!

Merlin.
O lady, I should rather do
Thee reverence. Alas, what kingship sits
In these gray hairs? Master? The child treads firmlier
Over rough ways; but I, the seer, am blind
And grope and stumble like a man in the dark.

Nimue.
Ay, but if thou stumblest in paths where another would perish—!
Blind? Rather say keen-eyed as the hunter that follows
The fleet-foot goat on the mountain, till, lost in the cloud-mist,
Sheer at his feet gulfs gaping, he stops in amazement,
Dizzy and doubting—but another had never dared climb there.

Merlin.
Thy words are like a wood-brook in my ears.
But, gentle lady, I am sick at heart:
Increase of knowledge increaseth mysteries;
And, knowing much, I know that I know nothing.

Nimue.
Yet something I hold it, being man, to put question as thou
To the gods, though the gods render answer in riddles.

Merlin.
Ah, me!
Too well I know the bridgeless vast between
The most high gods and men. Let but these limbs
Be once more lithe and tense, and so endure—
These smouldering eyes flame with immortal fire—
What do I say?—Make the soul young again
To tread with step perennially light
The ways of thought and passion, and o'erleap
The hedges and the dykes of circumstance—
There were the god-like!—then I might dare think ...
Of what is less than a day-defeated dream.

Nimue.
Why breakest thou so suddenly off, too modest?
Dreams are from God. So oft is an oracle spoken.

Merlin.
Thy words are as a lure to the fatal springe
Of mine own folly. Nimue, Nimue! ...
First time I saw thee, 't was in a frail skiff
Among the water-lilies of the lake—
Standing upright, borne on without wind or oar,
As if the spirit of the flowers had risen
Over them in a mist and, floating there,
Rounded at last to definite shape—in thee.
Since then at night I have seen thee by my bed
And in the day—But I have not been a fool.
Mere man am I and weak with years, nor choose,
Leaping at godhood, to fall back to earth,
Crippled and bleeding.

Nimue.
Manhood is godhood in germ—
Aught less is brutishness. Anywise, whoso would win,
Be it godhood or devilhood, must leap.

Merlin.
I have talked face to face
With gods and demons, and have dared to seek
The awful cavern of the Norns and held
Strange questionings with them; yet none the less
I know myself—mere man. Not mine to hope
Youth and the goal, the joy of mastership,
The poise of achievement—these are for the gods.

Argente.
Thou camest from Hecla hither?

Merlin.
Ay, but by some strange route I know not of.

Nimue.
Dark riddles speak they, the sullen-muttering Norns.
Why wouldst thou scan their searchless mysteries?

Argente.
Concerning what didst thou demand of them?

Merlin.
Of Arthur and the maiden, Guenevere.

Argente.
Seeks Arthur, then, a queen?

Merlin.
He would be wed.

Argente.
Beware lest he find a queen, but not a wife!
Let him not marry her, Merlin!
Ah, woe! I see a great woe in the land.

Merlin.
Shall all his might be lost with which he strove,
Building the mightiest throne in the round world,
The noblest—for failure of a hand to keep
His conquests? For a child is as ourselves,
Renewed, corrected, wiser for our lives,
Achieving wholly where we partly failed.

Argente.
With much devising we shall change no whit
What God shall do with that which we have done.

Merlin.
What, shall our labors fail?

Argente.
The kingdom shall pass utterly.
But he, the king, shall wear a greater crown.

Merlin.
Knowing all this, why questionest thou me?

Argente.
Yon world of days and nights where Arthur lives,
I know but as thou knowest.

Merlin.
Over it they rule,
The Norns, the unfaltering.
Why keepest thou me here, then,
With empty words?

Argente.
O weak in wisdom!
Knowest thou not, then, that here
Thou, too, wert born.
Camelot? The world? A dream,
Wherein thou movest about
Amid thin apparitions!

Nimue.
Here, here, O Merlin,
Delights await thee,
Soft lips that smite and sweet hands that kiss,
Love that decays not,
Joy that delays not,
Thought that grows thing
Without groaning, a gladsome travailing.

Merlin.
O subtly fair and beautifully wise,
With what device wouldst thou ensnare my mind?

Argente.
Understandest thou not?
Thou, who art subtle beyond thought!

Nimue.
O slow of faith!
Lo, I invite thee
Out of the shadows
To the firm and the free.

Argente.
I charge thee, as thou wouldst avert great woe,
Let not the king take Guenevere to wife.

Merlin.
Wouldst thou be mightier than the Norns?

Argente.
Over the beginnings
They have no power.
Theirs but to conclude.

Merlin.
Who shall persuade their wills?
Who shall unspeak their words?

Argente.
Even thou understandest not as yet their speech.

Merlin.
A brittle anchor is thought;
But the storm bellows and ramps and the gods in heaven are earless.
Weak as it is, I cast it out to the tide.

Nimue.
Yet are there winds that blow to a secure haven.

Argente.
Wilt thou trust the hope of the world to a slender cord?

Merlin.
Nay, what seems best to my divided soul,
That must I do, let it be well or ill.

Argente.
Ai, ai!
The fate of the king, the grandly-defeated!
For over many ways he toils, with hope
High-set, to find a darkness and a chasm.

Merlin.
What ill is this, whereof she prophesies?

Argente.
Woe, woe!
The dream of the new earth
Is broken and shattered.
It drives before the wind
As torn clouds after the spent storm.

Merlin.
What shall endure? For, although one should build
Upon a rock, there is the earthquake. Ay,
The earth itself shall be cast as straw in the fire,
And there shall none know where in the trackless gulfs
Of interstellar darkness, thundering,
It charioted once its swift predestined way.

Argente.
Ah me!
A blessed lot is the lily's in the lake,
That waits the rounding of its circled life
Without the sense of unfulfilled desire.

Maidens.

[Argente and the maidens have withdrawn a little space.]
Merlin.
O Nimue, had it been but possible,
That thou an earthly maiden, I a lad,
With nought to know or to forbode beyond
The thoughts that stir the thrushes in the coverts—!
O Age! what better boon hast thou to bring
Than love and song? But Arthur waits for me,
And what should I, an old man, have to do
With dreams of a completion for myself
Who daily weaken toward the undoing of all
The half-wrought in me—death. Elsewhere I look
To find the fruit grown ripe that fell in me,
Blasted in flower-time. Arthur waits for us.

Nimue.
Be it so, then. I summon my ministers.—Ho!
Arise, ye that turmoil beneath there!—Yet once again
I shall pass from thy sight as the violet light on the sea
When the sun sinks into a cloud.—Arise, ye starvelings!—
But, oh, my master and lord!
Thou shalt hear in the teasing of leaves stirred by the wind,
In the lisp of the lake through the reeds and the swan's harsh cry,
Made strangely, mournfully sweet in the cool and the dusk
As it comes from afar o'er the waters, a message of me;
For I wait for thee—there in the reeds!
As a glen in the woodland waits, with the touch of the sun
Slant-struck through the leaves on the brook and the grasses (a throstle
A-lilt in the bush), till the man, world-weary, appearing,
Worn with contention and evil, rests in her arms,
And his fever is cooled and his limbs wax youthful and strong,
And the sin is cleansed from his soul and the mist from his eyes,
And the bird in his heart wakes, singing of love and peace.—
Arise, I say, monsters!
Arise! Earth waits and the carrion of earth!
Hunger ye not?

[The ground opens and flames appear. Through the opening a car rises, drawn by dragons. Nimue enters the car and extends her hand to Merlin who follows her. The car rises into the air and disappears in the distance.]
Argente.
With grinning jaws
They gape horridly,
Bearing him back where body and soul
Gnaw juiceless bones continually.
Jag-toothed dragons, shutting and opening your eyes
With hideous slowness!
In my soul, too, is a hunger.
Ai, ai!
The bite of the tooth in flesh that cannot waste!

Maidens.
Comfort thee, O our Queen!
Sorrow is dear to the wise,
Who know that Love is leading,
And believe—for have they not seen?
Mystery of mysteries!
The crowned brow is bleeding.

Argente.
Alas, my sisters! you are good to me.
Your presence is as starlight to my spirit.
Your words are as a bird's song in the trees
When all the woodland sorrows under clouds.
I know the end is sweet—I see it plain,
As the jay yonder the bough to which it flies.
But oh, the way is long and the heart weak!
Is the physician's wound less sore
Because his cunning knows that it will heal?
The fallen warrior
With the broken shaft of the spear driven as a nail
Through muscle, sinew, bone, lung, heart—
Feels he not, though Valhalla open
And the Valkyrs wait with cup and crown,
Sharp anguish, intolerable gaspings that pierce
Each with keen torture the frayed nerves, killing him
A hundred times for once?
Ai, ai!
It is not all a good to see the things
That shall be. He that will soar to topmost heaven,
Must plunge, too, down to the voiceless lowest of hell.
Ye shall not know the good without the evil,
Saith the Lord God.
Ai, ai! I see the maiden stand in the choir.
The royal robes are girt upon her. Priests
And choristers intone monotonously.
The sunlight falling bloodily through the panes,
Is dim and thick with incense. The King comes!
I see him take her fatal hand in his.
Aïe! The breath of the god
Tingles on my forehead!
My flesh quivers with its power!
The dread that hung over me sunders as a cloud.
A sunlit garden—lay this behind the gloom?
And he—is he my fear?
Beautiful as Balder he stands by the beautiful queen,
High-thoughted, kingly as a cedar.
From the high hills the woe cometh,
A desolating avalanche!. ...
The scabbard, Arthur!
Quick! The intriguing fingers close on it.
Awake! The sword itself is less precious. Ah! . .
Woe! woe!
The stark bodies of the slain!—
Spare me, Spirit that overbroods me!
I endure not the vision!
I am slain with intense whirling of tumultuous life!
Back, bodeful clouds! Once again, as with inrolling waters,
Engulf the insufferable sight!
Aïe!
The din of shields and the shouts of the warriors!
The death-birds hovering afar off!. ...
Where is he, my king, my beloved?
Over the sea-like sparkle of shields I seek him—in vain.
Ah, ah!
There, in the crest of the war-surf—
Arthur, Arthur!
He struggles toward the treacherous chief. Their swords clash.
O valiant prince! O misbegotten traitor!. ...
He falls—the King! the King!

[She falls back exhausted and is surrounded by her maidens, screening her from sight.]
Maidens.
Comfort thee, O our Queen!
Through warring and woe
The man and the woman
Build heaven for themselves.
From the deeps where it delves
Uplifted, the human
Soars to the divine,
Though the void intervene.
Pierce through the veils and lo,
The sevenfold light of the shrine!

[Exeunt slowly, singing.]
Angels
[above.]

[The entire scene melts away into a glory of intense light, because of the brightness of which the flight of the Angels is seen but dimly as they pass through it.]
Angels.
Down, down!
Into the gulfs of night
Between the worlds!
God also is there.
Down, down!
Into the caverns of space,
Where the great dark winds fare
From star to star!
Leaving his light,
Still towards him is our flight.
There in the dragon dark's embrace,
As here, as here, we look upon his face.

[The light changes to darkness. Mid-aether. Merlin and Nimue, in the chariot of dragons, accompanied by the Angels.

---

69

Nought else is seen in space but the distant stars.]
Merlin.
What flames are these? Lines of white following fire,
Half human and half meteor! Their light
Is as the swift aurora in the north.

Angels.
Dark, dark!
Dark is noon to the blind.
Follow and find!
Follow and find!
Hark, hark!
The noise of a rushing wind!
But thou knowest not whence it blows
Nor whither it goes.

Merlin.
Torment me not, ye fair derisive glories!
With much inquiring I lose heart to seek.

Angels.

Merlin.
Alas, then, what avail the labor of man?
And whither shall he turn, then, to be wise?

Angels.

Nimue.
Hearken to them, O Merlin! Woman in me
Makes my divinity bow and acknowledge their speech.
Wise are the Norns, and wiser and earlier we;
Truth spake the Norns, but truth is not one but three;
Deeper and wiser the truth that these flame-fashioned teach.

Merlin.
Speak, ye; and I am silence and abased.

Angels.
What thou canst divine,
That is thine, is thine.

[Three forms, like unto the Angels, appear in space; and on the forehead of each gleams a star.]
The Star of Arthur.

The Star of Launcelot.

The Star of Guenevere.

[They vanish, suddenly, with the Angels.]
Nimue.
Thou, too, O Merlin,
Follow thy star.

Merlin.
I follow thee.

[The chariot passes from sight.]

2. II. THE MARRIAGE OF GUENEVERE

A TRAGEDY

PERSONS.

• Arthur, King of Britain.
• Merlin, his Counsellor.
• Godmar, the Lord Marshal, Knight of the Round Table.
• Launcelot du Lac, Knight of the Round Table.
• Ector de Maris, Brother of Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
• Lionel, Cousin of Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
• Bors de Ganys, Cousin of Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
• Galahault, Knight of the Round Table.
• Ladinas de La Rouse, Knight of the Round Table.
• Kaye, Lord Seneschal of the Palace, Knight of the Round Table.
• Leodegrance, King of Cameliard.
• Peredure, his Son, a Poet.
• Publius, Ambassador from Rome.
• Pryderi, a Leech.
• Dagonet, a Jester.
• Gawaine, a lad, son of Morgause.
• Borre, a child, illegitimate son of Arthur.
• Camalduna, Queen of Cameliard.
• Guenevere, her Daughter, afterward Queen of Britain.
• Morgause, Arthur's sister, Queen of Orkney.
• Lionors, mother of Borre.
• Knights, Ladies, Ambassadors, Heralds, Pages, Watchmen, Attendants, etc.

Scene.—Britain.
Time.—May and June.

ACT I.

Scene I.

—In the edge of a wood a cavalcade has dismounted and the horses are tethered among the trees. In the background Merlin sits alone on a high place, looking at the towers of Cameliard, which are seen hazily in the distance. A group of Knights, seated in the foreground under a large oak tree, have just ended their repast and the attendants bring them beakers of wine. In this group may be noted Sir Lionel, Sir Ector De Maris, Sir Bors De Ganys, and Sir Galahault. King Arthur and Sir Launcelot walk apart in private talk.
Ector.
Thou hast not loved, Sir Bors.

Lionel.
But I love, cousin—
As fair a maid as e'er wore taffeta.
By the Round Table, lords, I think no knight
A truer lover! Yet hold I with my brother,
Friendship is nobler.

Ector.
Were thy lady here,
Thou durst not say it.

Lionel.
Why, who tells truth to women?
They love us better for a soft deceit
And feed on lies like sweetmeats.

Ector.
There are friends
Who play the rogue too and are branded false.
But false in love too often is a jest
Or flaunts itself for virtue. Still my faith is
That loyal love is the most goodly fruit
That grows out of men's hearts.

Bors.
But loyal friendship,
A fruit let fall by angels out of heaven,
A thing to die for!

Galahault.
Ay, at need; but love
A thing to live for—this is bitterer.

Lionel.
Call you life bitter?

Galahault.
Is the rind so sweet?
I can conceive a man so weary of life
That he would quaff mandragora to the drains
As revellers drink wine. Do you conceive,
His nearest friend beseeching, such a man
Would forego his carouse? But if his love
Came to him saying “Live, for I bid thee live,”
Though life and love alike were bitterness,
He would pour out the sweet death in the dust.

Bors.
Love seeks a guerdon; friendship is as God,
Who gives and asks no payment.

Galahault.
Tut, ye are boys.
Ye deem of love as children play at arms
And wit not what a slain man is. Heard ye
Never of Arcite and of Palamon
That were good knights of old and as true friends
As e'er faced death together? Yet one day,
Seeing a fair lady in a garden close,
They fell a-wrangling. Faith, they were as twins,
Inseparate from the womb; and yet swift love,
In less space than a man might look and say
“Lo there!” hath sundered them.

Bors.
Look where the King
And Launcelot walk together. Think you that they
Would fall out for a girl?

Galahault.
Strange things ere now
Have happened and the memory of men
Outlived them. Yonder, dreaming in the sun,
Behold the towers of Cameliard! Think you
The King, for love of Launcelot, would yield
The white enlacing arms of Guenevere,
Who waits there for the splendor of his coming
To make her Queen of Britain?

Lionel.
Launcelot would,
If he were Arthur and Arthur Launcelot.
And yet I think that Arthur's love is thin
And substanceless to that which Launcelot
Bears the mysterious Lady of the Hills
Whom none have ever seen.

Galahault.
No fickle lover
Can prove the glory and the might of love.
The King has loved—and more than twice, I think.

Lionel.
Ay, he has been a gay dog in his day.

Bors.
He is the sun. If there be spots in him,
I will not look upon them.

Lionel.
Nay, brother,
God shield I speak ill of the King. No man
This side of dotage loves him more than I.
I spoke of trivial faults. What one of us,
Unless it be yourself or Launcelot,
Hath not the like to answer? Even the tale
The common tongue hath of the Queen of Orkney—
How is it more? They knew not of the bond
That made their sin more than the heat of youth
Might—

Bors.
Hush! it is half treason but to think
What we give words to.

Ector.
Morgause, the Queen of Orkney!
A strange dark woman!

Galahault.
But a beauteous one.

[The Knights rise at the approach of the King.]
Arthur.
We almost touch our journey's end, my lords.
Expected joy is like a maid that nears
With coy delay and timorous advance,
Eluding our stretched hands. So have I thought
To-day would never reach us; yet it dawns.
And ere the sun sets in the western sea,
Your swords shall serve a Queen.

Ector.
Long live the Princess!

Lionel.
But not as princess long! Long live the Queen!
A beaker to the bride!

All.
Long live the Queen!

[Enter a Lady, attended by a Dwarf. She throws herself at the King's feet.]
Lady.
If ever you inclined your ear to sorrow,
Be pitiful and hear me!

Arthur.
Pray you, rise.

Lady.
Nay, I will statue here until you grant
My prayer.

Arthur.
You wrong yourself. What is your grief?

Lady.
Far back within the impenetrable hills
The mighty Turquine dwells—of those fierce tribes
Who yet acknowledge not our Saviour Christ
But worship barbarous and obscure gods,—
A wicked knave!—a cruel, treacherous villain!—
One whose delight is chiefly to work wrong
To all that call on Mary and her Son!
This unbelieving dog in his foul lair
With momentary tortures racks the bones
Of my true lover. Me, as well, he seized
And set his love on me—if that be love
Which such a beast so names—and swore an oath
To bind us each, if I received him not,
And make my living lord the pillow to
His savage purpose. But I, by God's help,
Beguiled him and escaped; and with this weak
But faithful servitor, through lidless nights
And days that burned like fever in my brain,
Lurked in the caverns of the hills and made
The wild goats my companions.—Now, for thine oath's sake
And in the name of all fair ladies wronged,
O King, I cry you, do me right.

Arthur.
Now by
My sword Excalibur, it were great shame
Forever to all knighthood if thy plight
Went unredressed. But I have that in hand
To-day which more imports me than the wrongs
Of all the world. To-day I take a wife.
It were a great dishonor if the feast
Were furnished and the bridegroom came not. Therefore
Set on with us to Cameliard. To-morrow
We will set forth with all our chivalry
To hawk at this foul quarry.

Lady.
Oh, my lord,
Think how each lapsing moment the quick groans
Of my chained lover clamor for release.
Wilt thou be like that recreant who said,
“I have a wife and therefore cannot come,”
When the Lord of Heaven bade him? Nay then, I see
You are even as other men, whom I had thought
To be almost divine. I know I come
Unseasonably. Grief hath, my lord, a license
To overpass the bounds of courtesy.—
Oh, is there none in all this chivalry
To piece his prayers to mine?

Launcelot.
My lord the King,
I claim this quest. Go you to Cameliard
And have no care at heart. I, with three others,
Will seek and slay this Turquine, and set free
His mangled captives.

Lady.
Thou and but three else?

Launcelot.
It is sufficient.

Lady.
Alas, you do not know
The peril of the enterprise!

Arthur.
Fear not.
It is Sir Launcelot of the Lake. He wonts not
To fail of his pledged word.—My Launcelot,
I had wished that you should be on my right hand;
But since it may not be—Our Lady speed you!

Launcelot.
Amen. Fair joy be to your bridal, Arthur!
Farewell!—Now who's with me?

Lionel.
I.

Bors.
I.

Ector.
And I.

Lady.
You are brave men. Come victory or defeat,
I am bound to you forever.

Launcelot.
Nay, we do
No more but our mere duties. Lead us on.
I know the mountain paths of old. Armor
And steeds would cumber us. We'll go afoot,
Armed no more heavily than now we stand.
Farewell, my liege! And farewell, gentlemen!
We'll drink your healths ere long in Camelot.

[Exeunt Launcelot, Bors, Ector, Lionel, the Lady, and the Dwarf.]
Arthur.
Ah, Galahault, with fifty men like that,
I would shape this old world like a putty-ball.—
Set on to Cameliard.

[Enter a Messenger.]
Messenger.
My lord the King!
King Mark of Cornwall has renounced his fealty
And with a mighty army is encamped
Upon your borders. Sir Godmar, the Lord Marshal,
Has ta'en the field against him, but beseeches
You haste to his relief.

Arthur.
Now, by my crown,
I will not go. The heavens conspire to block
My progress to the towers that hold my bride.
But stood the Archangel Michael in the way,
This marriage should not wait. We will go on;
To-morrow morn is time enough for Mark.
Sir Galahault, our Queen shall be your charge
Until these wars are over. Come, set on!

[While the cavalcade is preparing to move the scene closes.]

Scene II.

—A rocky pass in the mountains. Enter Launcelot, Bors, Lionel, Ector, the Lady, and the Dwarf.
Launcelot.
Let me rest here a moment. Nay, go on;
I shall o'ertake you ere you gain the crest.
Cousin, a word with you.
[Exeunt all but Bors and Launcelot.]
What blessed chance
Has led me hither?

Bors.
Cousin, you called me back.

Launcelot.
Why, but to have you with me, Bors. This place
Is like a sudden scene of other days
That starts up in the middle of a dream;

Bors.
Have you been here ere now?

Launcelot.
Ay, and that time
Would stand erect and vivid in my brain
Though all the other puppets of the past
Reeled into smoke. This is the very spot.
I lay here, cousin, even here where this gaunt bramble
Still tugs a meagre life out of the cleft
Where it is rooted,—faint almost to death;
For I had struggled through these cruel hills
Three days without a crust, and my head swam
And my legs wavered under me and would not
Bear me upright. Down these precipitous crags
And o'er these dizzy ledges I could pass
No more than I could leap across yon gulf,
And I lay down and thought of death, as of
A gulf into whose blackness one might leap
And fall forever. A long time lay I so,
Too weak to struggle with impending doom,
And death seemed like to yawn and swallow me.

Bors.
And yet you are not dead. How 'scaped you, then?

Launcelot.
God sent a blessed angel to my aid.
There on the peak beyond the gulf I saw her,
Standing against the sky, with garments blown,
The mistress of the winds! An angel, said I?
God was more kind, he sent a woman to me.

Bors.
The Lady of the Hills!

Launcelot.
Ay, so I call her,
For other name I know not.

Bors.
The unknown lady,
Whom you have made more famous than a queen!
Here saw you her the first time?

Launcelot.
And the last time.
She was attended by a motley Fool,
Who stretched his hand and pointed where I lay.
She saw me and in pity of my case
Sent Master Dagonet—so the Fool was called
But he nowise would tell the lady's name—
To help me down the pass. But she went on
Alone across the summits of the hills
Like some grand free Diana of the North
And passed out of my sight, as daylight fades
Out of the western sky. But I no more
Was faint, and went my way, considering.

Bors.
But could you nowise find out who she was?

Launcelot.
Nowise, for Merlin met me thereupon,
And brought me suddenly to Camelot,
Where I was knighted. I had fain delayed
But boy-like shamed to say wherefore my heart
Hung back toward the hills. And so I passed
Away from her and never saw her more.

Bors.
Even here it was you saw her?

Launcelot.
Ay, even here.

Bors.
Why, then, should you not meet her here again?

Launcelot.
The hope of that is as the morning-star,
The messenger of dawn. And in good sooth
I have a feeling in my heart that soon
My long and lightless service shall have end
And I shall serve her seeing. But our friends
Await us. I shall serve my lady better
With noble actions than with idle dreams.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

—Cameliard. The Palace of Leodegrance. A chamber hung with rich embroideries. At the centre a wide entrance with heavy curtains, which conceal a corridor. At the

---

15

upper right corner a window opening on a balcony which overlooks the sea. Guenevere is seated before this window with a harp.
Guenevere.
[Sings].

[While Guenevere sings, Morgause has entered, unperceived.]
Morgause.
It is a sad song for a bride to sing.

Guenevere.
I did not know that anyone was near.

Morgause.
I did not mean to be an eavesdropper,
But as I entered I was charmed to silence
And could not break in on so sweet a sound
Before the singer ceased.

Guenevere.
I thank you, madam;
I am not in the mood for compliments to-day.

Morgause.
Not to-day of all days in the year,
In which the sun shines on you as a bride?
Fair weather weddings make fair weather lives.

Guenevere.
I care not much for omens.

Morgause.
Come, sweetheart,
There is a time to mask and to unmask,
And on a wedding morn the light of joy
Should frolic on the face as in the heart.
The courtiers will set up a silly tale
That this alliance is against your will.

Guenevere.
But I do nothing, save of my free will;
Let the vain gossips babble as they please.

Morgause.
I have just come from the Great Hall. You'll have
A royal ritual, sweetheart,—such a retinue
Of dames and damosels, barons and knights,
As Cæsar's self could hardly muster in
Imperial Rome.

Guenevere.
Is Peredure without?

Morgause.
Gods, hear this woman! I tell her of her wedding;
She answers me—“Is Peredure without?”
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Now what would Arthur say
To find himself so hindward in your thoughts?

Guenevere.
Peredure is not like my other brothers,
Wolf-eyed, thick-bearded, fond of dealing blows.
There's something of the woman in his nature
That makes his manliness a finer thing.
He has the courage of a gentle heart—

Morgause.
And he writes the prettiest rhymes that ever were
About some marvellous woman that he loves
But whom he dare not woo. Poor boy, when he
Is older, he will find the woman lives not
Too virtuous to be flattered by a conquest.
I left him in the throng about the throne
With such a woful look upon his face,
As if the rhymes of his last virelay
Were all at loggerheads.

Guenevere.
Does he not go
With us to Camelot?

Morgause.
'T is so determined.
I marvel that Sir Launcelot is not here.
A month ago, ere I left Camelot
To seek a friend where I must find a sister,
It was supposed that Launcelot would be
The chief of Arthur's groomsmen. Arthur and he
Are like two almonds in a single shell
That silly maids make matron wishes on.

Guenevere.
I had a strange dream yesternight. Methought
An unknown knight stood by my bed, and as
I lay spell-bound in dim bewilderment,
Cried “I am Launcelot!”—and I awoke.

Morgause.
He came,then, in a dream. I thought he would not
Be so discourteous as to keep away
Entirely.

Guenevere.
Why talk ye all of Launcelot?
His fame spreads westward over Wales like dawn.

Morgause.
He has the reputation of all virtue.

Guenevere.
And does his reputation top himself?

Morgause.
Sometimes a bonfire imitates the dawn.

Guenevere.
Sometimes, too, dawn is taken for a bonfire;—
I care not. Dawn or bonfire, it is nothing
To me.

Morgause.
Nor to me neither, but I chafe
To hear the gabble that they make about him.
Why, child, the world is gone mad at his heels!
They tell of valor that despises odds,
And courtesy that throws prudence to the drains—
Such tales they tell of him! And as for women,
There is not maid nor wife in Camelot
Whose heart is not a spaniel at his feet.
And yet they say he takes no fruit of it
But is as spotless as Saint Dorothy—
With such a tittle-tattle of his purity!—
Bah, when the King and he are in one cry!

Guenevere
[rises].
What do you mean?

Morgause.
Oh, nothing—I mean nothing.
Your husband is no worse than other men.
The Lady Lionors has a little boy,
But, though he certainly looks like the King—

Guenevere.
Why do you tell me this?

Morgause.
You must know some time
What you had better learn from friends than foes.
You are leaving now the world of fairy tales,
Where all the men are true of heart and chaste
And all the women chaste and true of heart.
You enter now the world in which we live;
You'll find it peopled in another fashion.
Here comes a very wise philosopher—
Ask him.

[Enter Dagonet.]
Guenevere.

How now, sir? You look soberly.

Dagonet.

I? I am as merry as a skull, and that is always grinning, as you would see if you could but look beneath the skin.

Guenevere.

A grim jest, sirrah.

Dagonet.

Ay, it is ill jesting at a wedding. Aristophanes himself, who first wore motley, would go hang for lack of a laugh. For your good unctuous jest must have a soil of light hearts or it will not grow; and there is a predisposition at weddings to solemnity.

Guenevere.

Nay, now you are out; for a wedding is a joyous matter.

Dagonet.

But no laughing matter, my lady. For various wise philosophers have observed that in moments of most exquisite pleasure the expression

of the face is solemn. What signifies a wedding? Harmony. Now the essence of a jest is contradiction, but that comes after the wedding. So no more jests from me, my lady, till you have done with eating green cheese, which is excellent diet for the moonstruck—but I prefer Stilton.

Morgause.

Tell us, then, good Dagonet, what is the most pregnant occasion of jesting.

Dagonet.

A funeral, for the long faces of the company provoke the merry devil in the brain as inevitably as a Puritan calls out mockery from the reprobate. I have known an accidental rasp on a viol to set all the mourners—except the paid ones— in a titter.

[Sings.]

Guenevere.

Make jests at my funeral, I prithee, Dagonet.

Dagonet.

Death himself is the greatest jester. He is the farce that follows all tragedies. For is it not supremely ridiculous that I myself, about whom to-day the universe revolves, may to-morrow be reduced to the level of Alexander or any common dead body?

Morgause.

Do you make yourself greater than Alexander, Fool?

Dagonet.

Ay, or any other corpse, for I am alive and “a dead lion”—But the worms have eaten that, too. But here come the King and Queen. I was sent to announce them, but these lofty matters have made me forget my duty. Philosophy will undo me yet.

[Enter Leodegrance, Camalduna, Pyrideri, Merlin, Galahault, and Attendants.]
Merlin.
May Britain find its peace in you, my child.
I have given my life to make a State. I found
The Saxons ravaging our fields, our King
The traitor Vortigern, within ourselves
Each petty lord in arms against his neighbor,
And man to man belligerent. But I
Shall leave my country one, victorious,
Organic and at peace. And in the top
Of this great arch of empire you are set
A keystone, that it may not fall, when Arthur
And I take our supporting hands away.
Your destiny is glorious, to be
Mother of kings and mother of a realm.

Guenevere.
And mother of my people, sir, I trust.

Galahault.
The homage duty soon must pay my queen,
Beauty compels beforehand to the woman.

Guenevere.
You use fair words at Camelot, my lord;
Our mountain courtiers have a blunter speech.

Merlin
[to Morgause].
Still where the quarry is the falcons fly.

Morgause.
This riddle has no key. Why do you speak,
If you desire not to be understood?

Merlin.
I wish and I wish not to be divined,
And you divine me and divine me not.
For you are not so subtle as you think
Nor half so simple as you would be thought.

[Returns to the King. Guenevere, Morgause, Galahault, and Dagonet walk apart and after a little go out upon the balcony.]
Leodegrance.
Why interchange you with the Queen of Orkney
These hostile brows?

Merlin.
Though she be Arthur's sister,
Near is too near, unless—

Leodegrance.
I understand you.
Happy the man in whose own household lurks
No secret enemy to undermine
His purpose and his joy. But she will make
No mischief here. My girl feels honor keenly
And will not stoop to listen to intrigue.

Merlin.
I doubt it not. The very waywardness
That rumor speaks of her, shows a great soul,
That feels too prisoned even upon a throne.

Camalduna.
Indeed, she is not like a common girl,
And I could never make her do as others.

Leodegrance.
Wild as the sea-mew, restless of restraint,
She roams the jutting capes of Cameliard,
Like some strange dweller of the mountain winds,
Half kelpie and half woman. The highlander,
Chasing the roe o'er cliff and chasm, has often
Seen her lithe form rise from the treeless crag
Like smoke from a hunter's fire, and crossed himself,
Thinking he saw a creature not of earth.

Merlin.
I know her kind. It is a temperament
That suffers and achieves.

Camalduna.
A little girl,
She frighted the nurses more with her strange thoughts
Than ever they her with bogles. I remember
Her creeping from her bed once in midwinter
To ask if moonbuds only bloomed at night
That dead men, when they leave their graves to walk,
Might have their flowers also like the living.

Pryderi.
As the young limbs enlarge, the bones will ache;
Our oldwives call such ailments “growing pains.”
What our young princess needs is that her thoughts
Be drawn away from looking on herself.
The duties and responsibilities
That push us from our dreams and make us sane
By contact with the solid stuff of life,
These things a woman finds in household cares.
The wife and mother has no time to break
The wings of girlish thoughts with idle beating
Against the bars of Fate. Our princess, too,
Must bear the dignity of greater burdens,
Which for a soul imperious is good fortune.
Therefore, as a physician, who must watch
Both mind and body as they interact,
I have prescribed this marriage as a medicine.

Leodegrance.
This counsel of our wise and learned leech
Inclined us much to urge on Guenevere
A speedy yes to Arthur's suit. At first
She was, indeed, rebellious to our wish
And marriage thoughts were wormwood to her will.
Nathless I was unwilling to assert
My power as King and father to compel
Her course; for still I find the easy yoke
The popular. Yet, short of straight command,
The Queen and Pryderi,—and I myself,—
Have day and night reiterated words,
Soliciting with cogent argument,
Till she consented. She herself now chooses
The man of all men I would have her lord.
For I have not forgotten how King Arthur
With Ban and Bors routed my enemies
And with their triple armies saved my crown.—
Go, call the princess hither. Yet in sooth,
What should an old man say to a young maid?
The Queen shall speak to her. Madam, we shall
Withdraw and leave her to your tutelage.

Guenevere.
You called me, sire.

Leodegrance.
To say farewell, my child,
Before I yield thee to thy bridegroom's arms.
Our Lady Mary keep thee! Come, my lords.

Merlin.
I wish you greatness, lady.

Morgause.
And I goodness.

Pryderi.
I health and length of days.

Galahault.
I happiness.

[Exeunt Leodegrance, Merlin, Pryderi, Morgause, and Galahault.]
Dagonet.

And I a light heart and an easy palfrey that the way may seem short to Camelot.

[Sings.]

[Exit.]
Camalduna.
So far, my daughter, you have walked your way,
Self-willed, imperious, like a wanton child
That will not let her parents hold her hand,
Yet knows them near to save her if she fall.
Now they will not be near, and you may find
That freedom lays a weight upon our souls
That often we would like to shift to others.
I fear that counsel is poured out on you
Like an effectless wind; yet hear my words.
Take you no woman in your confidence,
But seem to do so. Each has her own ends,
And would betray you seventy times over,
And yet, repulsed, her selfishness through pique
May aggravate to active enmity.
Speak freely, but say little. Do not strive
Too far to outshine the ladies of the court
In jewelled ornaments and regal garb;
They'll hate you for it. Be profuse of favors;
They cost you little and will buy you hearts.
Yet do not play the braggart with your bounty—
Scorn lies beneath too much magnificence—
But always give as if the gifts were trifles
To eyes that see to whom the gifts are given.
All women are your natural enemies;
Think your end gained if they refrain from hate,
But seek your friends among the other sex.
Men have no quarrel with your eminence;
Your glory with their glory does not war,
But each may gain some splendor from the other.
Therefore, they may be faithful; but admit them
Only to the antechamber of your thoughts,
That their imagination may have scope
To fashion a dream-Guenevere to serve.
Not what we are but what men deem of us,
Is the true prince. Be faithful to your husband,
Yet not so servient as to jade his fondness.
Let him be often foreign to your life
That he may feel your lack and woo you over.
Be not too common to him. Hold him off
That you may bind him to you. For in him
Your domination lies. See that he has
No friend that is not yours, no counsellor
Whose secret thoughts are not your interests.
Be chaste as snow in heart as well as deed;
One spark of love may light a fire to burn
The edifice of your greatness to an ash.
Nor be contented with the innocent fact
But make your seeming lock the lips of slander.
And yet you may have lovers if you will;
The more the better, so you love not them.
For till we yield we are our lovers' tyrants,
But afterward their slaves. Remember this.

Guenevere.
Pray you, a little space alone, good mother.
[Camalduna kisses Guenevere, and then goes out.]
Why, what a thing is woman! She is brought
Into the world unwelcome. The mother weeps
That she has born a daughter to endure
A woman's fate. The father knits his brows
And mutters “Pish, 't is but a girl!” A boy
The very hounds had bayed for with delight.
Her childhood is a petty tyranny.
Her brothers cross her; she must not resist,—
Her father laughs to see the little men
So masterful already. Even the mother
Looks on her truculent sons with pride and bids
Her yield, not thwart them—“You are but a girl.”
A girl!—and must give way! She must be quiet,
Demure—not have her freedom with the boys.
While they are running on the battlements,
Playing at war or at the chase, she sits
Eating her heart out at embroidery frames
Among old dames that chatter of a world
Where women are put up as merchandise.
—Oh, I have slipped away a thousand times
Into the garden close and scaled the wall
And fled from them to freedom and the hills.
And I have passed the women in the fields,
With stupid faces dulled by long constraint,
Bowing their backs beneath the double burden
Of labor and unkindness—all alike,
Princess and peasant, bondslaves, by their sex!
Ah, the gray crags up whose sheer precipices
I have so often toiled, to throw myself
Panting upon their crests at last and lie
For whole long afternoons upon the hard
Delicious rock in that sweet weariness
That follows effort, with a silent joy
In obstacles that I could overcome.
They never called me girl, those mighty peaks!
They knew no sex,—they took me to their hearts
As if I were a boy. Oh, the wild thrill
That tingled in the veins, when the strong winds
Came howling like a pack of hungry wolves
That make the wintry forests terrible
Beneath the Norland moon! “Shriek on,” I cried,
“Rave, howl, roar, bellow, till you split your throats!
You cannot mar the pinnacled repose
Of these huge mountain-tops. They are not women!”
Why, what an idle rage is this! Am I
The Guenevere those still grand mountains know?
This is a bridal garment that I wear.
I am another Guenevere, a thing—
I know not what. I go to a new life.
I have ordered a new pair of manacles.
Arthur? As well Arthur as another—
I care not. If I must, I must. To live
The old life is no longer tolerable.
[Enter Peredure.]
My brother! You have come to see my gown.
Is it not beautiful? And see, this diadem
To show I—

Peredure.
Guenevere! How is it with you?

Guenevere.
Why, as it should be with a bride. It seems
You ask strange questions, brother. I had thought
I should be greeted with felicitations.
They say, a maid upon her wedding morn
Is timorous, fluttered, casts regretful eyes
—Or so she fancies—on her maidenhood,
And yet is glad withal. Seem I not so,
My brother? Am I—?

Peredure.
All's not well with you.
You seem as one that in a waking dream
Does—what, she knows not—with mechanic limbs.
My sister, dost thou act of thy free will?

Guenevere.
Who acts so? Life and custom close us in
Between such granite walls of circumstance
That, when we choose, it is not as we would
But between courses where each likes us not.
No, Peredure, it is not by constraint,
Save of the iron skies, I meet my lot.
I have not chosen it, but I accept it.

Peredure.
Think well. Once done, this cannot be undone.
You love not Arthur. This is not the face
Of one that hastens to her lover's arms.
Think you that you will ever love him?

Guenevere.
Love?
I have heard of it. Poets sing of it.
It must be a strange thing, this love.

Peredure.
Alas,
If thou shouldst learn what thing it is too late!
Girl, knowest thou what marriage means? Oh, if
When once the fatal ring is on thy finger,
Thou shouldst encounter some one who should kindle
Thy latent heart to flame. To be caressed
When thou art cold—this is a bitter thing.
But to be fondled by an unloved hand,
When all the soul is in another's arms—
That were a horror and a sacrilege.

Guenevere.
I shall not love. But sometime I must wed.
It is the law for women that they marry;
Else they endure a scorned inactive fate,
Unwelcome hangers-on at others' tables.
Besides, a girl's life is a cabined one;
A married woman has a wider scope.
She, too, is chained but with a longer tether;
She moves in the great world, and by that craft
God gives to creatures that have little strength,
May leave her impress on it. As for Arthur,
He is a very princely gentleman,
One whom at least I never shall despise.

Peredure.
Men say he is the crown of chivalry,
The pattern of the virtues of a knight.
But should he cloud the clear sky of thy life,
I ne'er should pardon him.

Guenevere.
My brother!

Peredure.
Dear,
I fear that Arthur ne'er will know as I
The gentleness of this imperious spirit.
I have asked Morgause much—

Guenevere.
I hate that woman.

Peredure.
Oh, say not so, she is so fair! O sister,
I did not think to tell thee of my sorrows
At such a season. When I spoke of love
And pleaded with thee to have fear of it,
I had good reason for my earnestness.
I know myself too well the hopeless woe
Of love debarred, against which Fate is set.
I love Morgause—

Guenevere.
Morgause? The Queen of Orkney?
The wife of Lot?

Peredure.
Ay, Guenevere, even so—
I love her. I would give my hopes of heaven
To press my lips against that flower-like mouth
And call her mine! Ay, I would die to feel
Once on my cheek the swan-soft touch of hers!
But I must make a dungeon of my heart
To hide my love in like a malefactor,—
Or like some hapless prisoner of state
Who ne'er did wrong but must be shut from the sun
For the realm's safety and in some dark cell
Is numbered with the dead. Oh, think of this
And do not build a prison for thyself
From whose barred windows thou may'st sometime see
Love beckoning to thee when thou canst not come!
There is no sorrow like a love denied
Nor any joy like love that has its will.
Oh, keep thy feet unbound to follow Love
When he shall come to lead thee to his rest!
Keep thy hands free to take his proffered gifts,
Thy heart unbound by barriers that prevent
The joy he would, but for our blindness, bring
To make a rapture and a song of life!
Believe—

Guenevere.
You talk of songs and raptures! Go
Back to your poetry, you child of dream!
Life is to be supported, not enjoyed.

Peredure.
Oh, no! it is to be enjoyed. Why else
Should God have made the world so beautiful?
And yet for me the glory of the hills,
The beauty of the sky's dissolving blue,
And all the woven magic of the grass
Have dulled their loveliness, and all their splendor
Cannot arouse again the ancient thrill.
There is a grayness over all the world.
Love is not to be mocked at, Guenevere.
Take heed! Look in thy heart, and be assured
That thou hast read it rightly. If a doubt,
If but the faint foreboding of a scruple
Be there, delay, break off this rash—

Guenevere.
Too late!
[The curtains at the centre are drawn apart, revealing a company of ladies in festal attire, with garlands, etc. A distant sound of chanting.]
See where my bridesmaids wait with wreaths of roses
To lead me to the altar and the prince.

Peredure.
Is it a triumph or a sacrifice?

Guenevere.
God knows! For me, I have chosen to go this course,
And I will keep to it till the event

Exit with bridesmaids.]
Curtain.

ACT II.

Scene I.

—Camelot. The gardens. Morgause, Peredure, Lionors, Gawaine, Dagonet, Kaye, and others.
Morgause.
The day is dull. Shall we have music?

Kaye.
Ay,
A rousing song!

Lionors.
He's all for tavern catches
Or martial strains of braggadocio.

Dagonet.

It is the finitude of his wit, whereof he has neither enough to be merry without drinking nor to be silent when drunk.

Kaye.

Drunk, varlet?

Dagonet.

If I called it a finer name, you would not follow me.

Lionors.

Nay, for that would be false manners. Would you have the nobleman follow the fool?

Dagonet.

No more than I would have the ass

follow the driver. Let me but carry the whip and he shall take precedence as much as he will.

Morgause.
Peredure, is there not a madrigal
Knocking against your heart to be let out?
Our idleness feeds on the empty day
As a chameleon on the air. Come, sing
And give us richer nurture.

Peredure.
[Sings.]

Gawaine.
A silly song! That's not the way to love.

Morgause.
What do you know of love, Gawaine?

Gawaine.
Enough
To know that it is a silly song, my mother.

Morgause.
Are you but sixteen and know love already?
[Enter Publius and Ladinas.]
The age has grown so forward that our children
Will make us grandams ere our heads are gray.—
You join us late, Sir Ladinas.

Ladinas.
Royal Orkney,
The courtesy of Camelot to a guest
Must be my plea. Lord Publius comes from Rome
With weighty missives from the Emperor.
While he awaits the King's return from Cornwall,
He must not sigh for the Campagna.

Morgause.
Welcome.
Will you make one of our too idle party?
We have been merry with inconsequences,
Tossing our empty fancies back and forth
Like shuttlecocks, for wantonness. I fear
You are too serious for these bagatelles.

Publius.
Let me not spoil your entertainment, madam.
So many fair young faces are about me,
Such a spring-burst of beauty and of youth,
I shall grow young myself for sympathy.

Gawaine
[apart to Lionors].
What an old flub! [Aloud.]
Now, madam, if you like,
I'll sing a song I learned the other day
And wager twenty pounds against a shilling
Mine is the better love-song of the two.

Morgause.
What say you, ladies? Shall this fledgling sing?

Lionors.
I am sure he will sing well.

Gawaine
[apart to Lionors].
[Sings. Morgause, Publius, and Ladinas converse apart earnestly.]

Lionors.
Oh, fie! it is a jade's song. Naughty boy,
You must be good or you'll be sent to bed.

Dagonet
[to Peredure].

She cries “boy” too loudly. Oh, la la! Ostriches, ostriches!

Morgause.

Come, let's to tennis. [To Peredure.]
Will you play with me?

Dagonet
[aside].

Ay, that he will, and lose the game too, for all your faults.

[Some play and the others gather about as spectators.]
Ladinas
[to Publius].
What think you? Have
I not achieved an ally of great price?

Publius.
It is well done. And no one of the court
Suspects you are Rome's secret emissary?

Ladinas.
Suspect a Knight of the Round Table? They would
As soon suspect the blessed angels.

Publius.
Yet
There was a Lucifer—

Ladinas.
No more of that!
I do not mean to sell my contraband
For barren rank or tinsel decorations.
I am no barbarous chieftain of the Zaire
To trade my ivory for a string of beads.
I must have money; you must make me rich
Beyond the power of prodigality
To dissipate—rich, rich; the rest is toys
For babes to play with!

Publius.
You shall have your will.
But say what motive pricks the Queen of Orkney?

Ladinas.
She hates the King as none can hate but they
Who once have loved. It is the tale that ere
The mystery of Arthur's parentage
Was by his mother's oath made clear, he fought
With Lot of Orkney and defeated him.
Then came this queen, Morgause, the wife of Lot,
And Arthur's sister, but they knew it not;
And Arthur was enamoured, nor was she
Unwilling. And, indeed, men say a child
Was born and hidden somewhere in the hills,
And that by him his father shall be slain.
And others say the King is free from stain,—
None knows. But't is most certain that they loved;
And still the Queen of Orkney will not think
That Arthur is her brother, but believes
That for the crown he cast her love away.
Judge how she hates him.

Publius.
And you love this woman?

Ladinas.
Ay, as the lost knight in the hollow hill
Loves Venus!. ... See you the fair lady yonder,
Who leads the stripling prince, Gawaine, at heel
Like a pet greyhound?

Publius.
Well, and what of her?

Ladinas.
Her name is Lionors, and of old time
She was the mistress of the King; but now
The Queen of Orkney keeps her in her train
That she may flaunt in Guenevere's proud face
Her bridegroom's old adulteries.

Morgause.
Love game!
It is the set, my lord.

[A trumpet without.]
Publius.
Is it a herald of the King's return?

Ladinas.
He will not come so soon. We shall have time
To spread a snare that he cannot escape,
Though how is all uncertain yet.

[Enter Galahault.]
Galahault.
Good news!
Ladies, glad news! Sir Launcelot is returned.

Several.
What say you? Launcelot?

Galahault.
Launcelot and his kinsmen,
Lionel and Ector and the good Sir Bors.

[Enter Launcelot and Bors.]
Morgause.
All honor to the realm's pre-eminent knight,
Returned, I doubt not, from a glorious quest!
Honor and welcome to the good Sir Bors!

Launcelot.
Thanks, gentle lady. Joy be with you all!
Where is the King?

Dagonet.
Welcome to Camelot—
To my new capital of Foolery!

Launcelot.
What, Dagonet! [Aside.]
The Fool! Where is the lady?

Dagonet.

You have too good a memory, sir, for a man of place. But, indeed, I knew not it was you when I saved you. Nathless, without me you had

not done these great deeds; ergo, you must have done them with me. Now see what it is to be modest; I had no idea I was a man of this mettle.

Morgause
[aside].
What's this? What's this?

Launcelot.
Now, by my sword, I am
Right glad to see your merry face again.
Where is the King?

Dagonet.

Why, I am king now and these are my subjects. See you not how, like good courtiers, they mimic me?

Kaye.
How do we mimic you, sirrah?

Dagonet.
Marry, by making fools of yourselves.

Ladinas.
The King, sir, is in Cornwall at the wars.

Launcelot.
I am right sorry that he is not here,
For since I set my face toward Camelot,
For joy that I should see him I have been
Light-hearted as a boy. I would clasp hands
And wish him happiness with his young bride!
The rumor of her beauty has gone out
From end to end of Britain. I have heard
She moves among our gardens like a dream
Of empired loveliness in far Cathay.
Lead me to her, Sir Galahault. I must
Do homage to my queen. Ah, gentle lady—
She shall not find in Camelot, I swear,
A heart more leal to her than Launcelot's.
Henceforth I'll wear no colors in the lists
But those of Arthur's bride.
[Enter Guenevere and Ladies. She stops in the centre, looking at Launcelot.]
Dear Galahault,
'T is my first duty both to king and friend
To lay my good sword at his lady's feet.
Lead me to her—
Bors! Galahault! Is it—? It is—

Galahault.
The Queen!

Launcelot.
I shall be leal to her indeed. Just God!

[He recovers himself. As he steps forward with Galahault toward the Queen the scene closes.]

Scene II.

—The Apartments of Galahault. Enter Launcelot, Galahault, and Bors.
Bors.

Prithee, Galahault, a stoup of wine! I have the dust of seven kingdoms in my throat.

Galahault.

Some wine, ho!

Bors.

What, Launcelot, not a word? I have not seen thee so cast down since Ector was taken captive by that rude infidel, Sir Turquine, whom thou slew'st.

[Enter a Servant with wine.]

What, man, gladden thy heart with this.

[Drinks.]
Launcelot.

I think that wine will never be aught but bitter to me again, and that I shall hate the perfume of flowers and the melody of lutes and mandolins as long as I live. Oh, my friends, I am but the husk of what I was, and all that was savory in me is consumed.

[Exit Servant with cups, etc.]
Bors.

Thou'st not been thyself since we were

presented to the Queen. I mind me now how thou didst start then and heave thy sides, as if thou 'dst seen a spirit. What—Galahault—is 't possible?

Galahault.
O Bors, Bors, Bors, the maids of Camelot
Say rightly that thou hast not loved; for else
His sorrow were no riddle.

Bors.
Nay, to me
A riddle darker with increasing light.
What, is the Lady of the Hills forgot?
Have human hearts no stronger faith? For I
Had looked to thee, O cousin, as the type
Of faith. Wilt thou betray the King, thy friend,
Even in thought?

Launcelot.
Peace, peace! What ails that I
Should e'er be false to Arthur? Rest you safe,
I have no lady if it be not she
Whom I have called the Lady of the Hills.

Bors.
Nay, cousin, use me frankly.

Launcelot.
Betray the King?
Thou talkest of thou knowest not what. Is 't possible
That I betray the King?

Bors.
What name was it
You gave the jester that we met below?

Galahault.
What, here? His name is Dagonet. The Queen
Brought him with her from Cameliard.

Bors.
The Queen?
Dagonet? By heaven, it is as clear as noon.
This is the very Fool that saved his life
For he did call him Dagonet that day
He told the story to me. And the Queen,
The Queen herself's the Lady of the Hills.—
Thou lovest her.

Launcelot.
Ay, as the lost love heaven!

Bors.
Alas, I pity thee; thy stars are evil.
But thou art noble and wilt not forget
Thy triple duty, God, the King, thy friend.

Launcelot.
Duty? The word is colder than the moon.
Thou art an icy counsellor. Dost think
That love will, like a hound that licks my hand,
Down at my bidding? Nay, thou hast not loved,
Nor dost not know that when Love enters in,
He enters as a master, not a slave.

Galahault.
True, Launcelot, Love is tameless as wild beasts.
Chains for his limbs but leave his spirit more free
To think the thing it may not act. Hunger
Is his best nourishment and he grows apace
Upon starvation. If he die at all,
He dies of surfeit, not of abstinence.

Bors.
But shall our champion of an hundred fights,
Whose name is one with valor's, be o'erthrown
By an effeminate longing, like a girl?

Galahault.
Speak not in scorn of love, Sir Bors. There are
But two things under heaven unconquerable
And certain, Love and Death.

[Enter a Page.]
Page
[to Launcelot].
My lord, your brothers
Have sent to seek you.

Launcelot.
Good, my cousin Bors,
Go thou for me; I cannot see them now;—
I have no heart.

Bors.
Go, tell them I come quickly.
[Exit Page.]
You will be your great self and turn this love,
If it be true that't will not be cast out,
To something high and noble. It may be,
As I can hardly think but that you live
Under some special warrant, that God means
You should do great deeds in your lady's name,
And in the chronicles of Time be set
For an example to the yet unborn
How love may cast out love's disloyalties,
And lovers, marvelling at such sacrifice,
Shall say, “So loved the good knight Launcelot.”

[Exit.]
Launcelot.
“The traitor Launcelot!” for I hear them now,—
Cold, scornful voices of futurity
That speak so cruel-calmly of the dead!
Oh, Galahault, for love of my good name
Pluck out your sword and kill me, for I see
Whate'er I do, it will be violence—
To soul or body, others or myself.
You will not? It would be a kindly deed.
—And yet I saw her first. What right had he
To steal her from me? I have served her well
Two years, laid all my laurels at her feet,
Won all my victories in her sweet name,
Though yet I knew it not. What right had he—?
Nay, nay, she loves him—who could love him not?—
And I shall hate him, hate my dearest friend,
Because—oh, God! oh, God!

Galahault.
Why grieve so soon?
You know not yet if she denies your love.
What if she should not?

Launcelot.
Galahault! You make
My poor head dizzy with quick-coming hopes.
What!—you mean?—it cannot be—

Galahault.
Why not?
She does not love the King; of that I am certain.
Sure, you are worth the love of any woman,
Were she ten times a queen!

Launcelot.
She does not love him?
Are you sure, sir? Are you sure? I dare not hope it.

Galahault.
She is as virgin of the thought of love
As winter is of flowers.

Launcelot.
But he loves her;
And it would rive his heart. He is my friend,—
Think, Galahault, my friend!

Galahault.
Love knows no friend
Nor foe save friends and foes to his desire.
Seek not to palter with him, for he is
More tyrannous than Nero in his cups.
He will endure no bargains, so much love
And so much virtue. You must yield him all
Or he'll not grant you anything. What profits
The King if for his sake you let all slip?
Why, that were chivalry run mad, for though
She love not you, she ne'er will love the King.
Seek other rivals, for not all the charms
Of Merlin and the Lady of the Lake
Would now avail to quicken in her lone heart
A pulse of love for Arthur. Did she hate him,
That might turn love; but when a husband seems
A mere indifferent covenanted thing,
She's like to love the Devil sooner. And can
You calmly think that even your friend of friends,
Lacking her heart, should call her body his,
Should sting that throat with kisses and—?

Launcelot.
Damnation!
Her body?

Galahault.
Ay, I said so.

Launcelot.
Not if he
Were fifty friends or fifty hundred kings!

Galahault.
Why, now you are a lover. Come with me.
The Queen is in the orchard.

Launcelot.
Galahault!

Galahault.
Look through the casement here. See where she walks,
As if a rose grew on a lily's stem,
So blending passionate life and stately mien.
How like a lioness she steps and pauses,
With grand, slow-moving eyes—

Launcelot.
No more! no more!

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

—A Bower in the Gardens. Guenevere and Ladies.
Guenevere.
You may withdraw, ladies.
[Exeunt Ladies.]
They did him wrong
Who called him but the goodliest of men,
For he is like a god. What did she say?
“There is not maid nor wife in Camelot
Whose heart is not a spaniel at his feet.”
Oh, I should hate them if they loved him not,
And hate them that they love him. What if he hide
Unworth behind that fair exterior!
And shall he add me to his list of slaves?
Yet, though I hate myself that am so cheap,
And love myself that he should be so dear,
And am a thousand things at once, each eyewink
In arms against its neighbor—what should I do,
If he—? I am too poor a thing to live,
And yet so happy that I am so poor!
And yet so wretched that I am so happy!
Why, had he laughed into my startled eyes
And asked “Dost thou adore me?” I had lacked
Power to keep back the “Yes” within my soul.
Or had he clutched my wrist and pulled me to him
And bade me love him, there before them all,
I would have put my lips up for a kiss.
... Yonder he comes. Why should he seek me out?
I am nought to him, one of a thousand women
Whose lives have crossed his somewhere and then passed
Into the dark. His Queen—a stupid word!
His Queen, when he may hear the lightest wish
Some other utters, as a Queen's command?
No Queen at all, unless his Queen in all!
I will not love—and he shall never know.
I would I had not sent my maids away.
I lie; I am glad they are not here. I felt
That he was coming when I bade them go.
[Enter Launcelot.]
Does he do reverence to the Queen or me?—
Good-morrow, sir. You like our gardens, too.
'T is a sweet place; June lays her heart bare here
And sighs her soul out through the passionate air.

Launcelot.
There is no garden like it in the world.

Guenevere.
I did not guess you were so fond of gardens.
I thought of you with lance and battle-axe
In the forefront of war—yet not as one
That kills his fellows with a savage joy—
But with pale brow where anger never writ
His ugly name in frowns.

Launcelot.
You thought of me?

Guenevere.
Who does not think of you? Your fame is blown
Further than Cameliard.

Launcelot.
And you thought of me
As hard and cruel?

Guenevere.
Never for a breath!
And yet I did not think that you would feel
The strange delicious sweet of such a place.

Launcelot.
I never felt it as I do to-day,—
Though I remember, when I was a boy,
There was a beautiful lady who would come
Across the lake and take me in her skiff
And tell me wondrous tales, tales which still make
A low confusèd murmur in my brain
Like the vague undertone of many bees.
I called her “fairy mother” then, but now
Men tell me that she was that Nimue,
The Lady of the Lake, whom Merlin loves.
I know not. I remember only how
I leaned my head over the boat's edge, looking
Deep through the water to another sky,
So clear the water was; and, as I leaned,
My soul went swooning down that crystal space,
Down, down forever, till sinking seemed to turn
To rising, with the sky not far away.

Guenevere.
Tell me more of your life. You must have seen
So much in its young course—have done so much.

Launcelot.
Nay, little that I can remember. I am
Strangely unable to distinguish one
Good or ill hap out of the blur of things,
Battles and tourneys, one much like the other,
And lost already in the murmurous past.
I feel as if I were just born to-day
With life before me like this summer air,
Hushed, as in waiting for a bird to sing,
Who yet delays, and all is fresh and fair,
And hope stands flushing like a rosy boy
Upon a threshold which he fears to cross.
But what I fear or what I hope, indeed
I hardly know—and yet I hope and fear.

Guenevere.
But surely some recognizable peak
Soars up among the mountains of your deeds
That you can show me.

Launcelot.
Indeed there is a height
So near me that it shuts out all my life;
But I have not attained it. One event
I well remember, but it was a vision,
Not an achievement. That was when I first
Beheld you.

Guenevere.
Have you seen me, then, before?
And you remember it and I forget?

Launcelot.
I should have died of faintness in the hills
If you had not stood by.

Guenevere.
What, were you he
Whom Dagonet the Fool saved?

Launcelot.
I am he.

Guenevere.
How strangely are the threads of life inwoven!—
Yet since you will not tell me of your deeds,
Tell me at least for whom you do them.

Launcelot.
Ah, me!

Guenevere.
I know that for some dame or damosel
You do them. Tell me, by the faith you owe me,
Who is the lady? For I know thou lovest.

Launcelot.
Say that I do so, were it not far better
That this new birth had never been conceived;
Since even while I babble of its joy,
Grief glooms above it like the shadow of death?

Guenevere.
What part hath grief in thee, Sir Launcelot?
I might as soon paint sorrow on the face
Of blessed Michael standing in the sun.

Launcelot.
Queen, that I love is true; and love should be
More joy on earth than Michael hath in heaven.
But I have been too much beloved of Fortune;
And she hath dowered me with all goodly gifts
Only in the end to turn them to a gibe.
For all my feats of arms were done for you,
And if you love me not, it had been better
My mother died a maid—and should you love,
Which yet I dare not hope, our lives must be
Like outcast angels, glorious with shade,
A bitter gladness and a radiant woe.
Ay, for 't is you I love. Love leaped to life
Within me when I saw you in the hills,
As Saint John leaped within his mother's womb
When Mary drew near, childing of the Christ.
Speak to me! Will you outstare marble? God!
I say, I love you. See, I crawl to you!—
I pray you pardon me. I see you are
Too merciful to speak. I give you pain;—
I have spoken wildly. Fare you well! I will not—

[Rushes off.]
Guenevere.
He loves me! Oh, how good it is to draw
Deep breaths of this rich-scented air. The odor
Seems to pass into me. Does love transfigure
The world like this? Nay, then it is a god,
That's certain.

[Enter Galahault at the back among the trees. Launcelot follows him, beseeching.]
Launcelot.
Oh, be silent for my sake
Or I shall die of shame.

[Throws himself on his face under a willow in the background.]
Galahault
[advancing].
O cruel Queen!
What have you done to my poor friend? Look where
He lies upon his face and heaves his sides,
Like a dumb animal hurt unto death.
Oh, what a loss were there, if he indeed,
Pierced with your scorn, should die!

Guenevere
[musing, unconscious of Galahault's presence].
The greater loss
Were mine. O heart, my heart, rememberest thou
What he has said?

Galahault.
What?

Guenevere.
If his words be true,
He has done all his deeds of arms wherewith
The sky's blue concave rings, for me, me only.

Galahault.
He may well be believed, for as he is
Of all men the most valiant, so he hath
A truer heart than others.

Guenevere.
They say well
That he of all men is most valorous,
For he has done such doughty feats of arms
As no knight else. And this, all this he did
For me.

Galahault.
Why, then, you should be pitiful.

Guenevere.
How pitiful, in sooth? The cliffs and crags
Of Cameliard have left me ignorant
Of much, I doubt not, that our Camelot dames
Suck with their mother's milk. But yesterday
Love was to me an idle poet's song.

Galahault.
This is not yesterday; for now you know
How more than all fair women he loves you,
More than his life, yes, more than his own soul;
And that for you he has done more than knight
Did ever yet for lady.

Guenevere.
More indeed
Than I can ever merit. Could he ask
Anything of me that I could deny?
—But he has asked me nothing. Only he is
So sorrowful that it is marvellous.

Galahault.
Then heal that sorrow, madam, for you may.

Guenevere.
He asked me nothing.

Galahault.
Nor would never ask,
Love is so fearful when it is new-born.
But I plead for him. This is what he would,—
That you should love him and retain him ever
To be your knight, and that you should become
His loyal lady for your whole life long.
Grant this and you will make him richer far
Than if you gave the world.

Guenevere.
I have given him all
The world I have, the world of my own thoughts,
Desires and aspirations, hopes and fears.
—You see, I trust you, sir. I know not how
You come upon my dream, like a strange shape
That casts a shadow where no shadows are.
But you are here, although you be but thickened
Out of the air before me, as my thoughts
In like wise now round to a definite orb.
I know that he is mine and I all his,
And that you somehow, strangely, have been part
Of things ill done and mended.

Launcelot.
No, I dream.
It is not she that speaks. Dear God, if this
Be but a dream, oh let me die and find
That heaven is just to dream forever thus.

Galahault.
Gramercy. Now 'tis fit you enter on
Love's service. Kiss him once before me, madam,
For the beginning of true love.

Guenevere.
Those yonder, sure,
Would marvel much that we should do such deeds.

Galahault.
No one will see.

[Turns away.]
Guenevere.
And if they did?—Why, Launcelot,
You tremble like a leaf. Will you not kiss me?
Are you afraid? Nay, then I will kiss you.

[She takes him by the chin and kisses him.]
Curtain.

ACT III.

Scene I.

—Camelot. Gallery and portico in the apartments of the Queen of Orkney, overlooking a great water. Lionors and Borre.
Borre.
Mamma,
I like to talk to you about Gawaine.

Lionors.
Why, darling?

Borre.
Because you hold me close to you,
And kiss me so.

Lionors.
My little innocent wisdom!

Borre.
Gawaine never kisses me. And yet he is kind;
He gives me sweets and—Oh, mamma, look! look!
The moon—how big it is! It comes right up,
Right up out of the mere, just like Gawaine
When he is swimming. You know, he plunges under
And then his head comes up 'way over yonder,
And then he shakes the drops out of his hair
And wipes his eyes with his fingers. The moon is bald
Like poor old Hugh the gardener. That's why
The water doesn't stick to it.

Lionors
[kissing him].
Sweetheart! See
How still the moonlight lies upon the water!

Borre.
It's like a silver road.

Lionors.
How would you like
For you and me to go out hand in hand
As we do i' the meadows, and pluck those flowers
That grow on the waves by moonlight, and so go on
And on and on until we came to Fairyland?

Borre.
I'm 'fraid we'd get our feet wet.

Lionors.
I'm afraid we might.

Borre.
But what's a road for, if you mayn't walk on it?
Mamma, I don't think it's a road at all;
It's a river.

Lionors.
A river, love?

Borre.
A river of shine;
The fairies go swimming in 't.

[Enter Peredure.]
Lionors.
Good even, sir.
The Queen of Orkney is engaged within.
So please you wait with me a little while,
She'll see you presently.

Peredure.
I will remain;
You are very gracious.—Well, my little dreamer!
What are you thinking of, with your great brown eyes
Looking so wistfully on the mere? Come, kiss me.
What do you see out there?

Borre.
My lord, who lives
I' the sea?

Peredure.
Why, the fishes, Borre.

Borre.
And the old crabs
With their great ugly claws—I know. But I think
A princess lives there in a crystal palace,
All white and cool, with crabs to guard the gates.
That's why their arms are so long, you know—to catch
The robbers with.

Peredure.
Are there robbers in the sea?

Borre.
Oh, yes! that's such a pretty story. Mamma,
Tell it to him—you know, the one you told
Last night—about the water-kelpies that tried
To steal the princess' treasure.

Lionors.
Some other time,
Sweetheart.

Borre.
Oh, please, mamma, please tell it!

Lionors.
Not
To-night, dear. It grows late, and it is time
For little folk to be abed. Come, Borre,
We'll go find nurse.—Excuse me, pray, my lord;
I will return soon.

Borre.
I don't want to go;
I am not sleepy.

Peredure.
Let me carry him.
Wouldn't you like a ride upon my shoulder?
That's it. Now we go. Lead on, my lady.

Borre.
Hey!

[Exeunt Lionors, Peredure, and Borre.]
[Enter Morgause and Publius.]
Publius.
If it be true, as you suspect—

Morgause.
No fear!
You are very wise and subtle, good my lord,
But trust a woman's wit as subtler still
Where woman's heart's at question. You were there;
Your eyes were fixed, as all eyes, on the Queen;
Yet you nor no man there saw what I saw.
I tell you, when a woman's eyes are lit
With such a light as that I saw in hers
The while she gazed at Launcelot, 'tis small matter
Whether she flinch or falter to the world—
She loves.

Publius.
Well, let us grant, then, that she loves;
You women sometimes prove absurdly right,
And I incline to trust you. But the King
Will ask more solid proofs.

Morgause.
And he shall have them!
Ay, if I pull the ruin on myself,
I'll find the engines somewhere to upheave
The pillars of his peace. Oh, he doth vex me
Beyond endurance with that calm of his,
That silly satisfaction on his face,
As if he were some god, forsooth, and deigned
To live with men as a sun might deign to shine.

Publius.
Do not forget the most important thing,
That Launcelot must quarrel with the King;
For thence I see a great advantage grow
For Rome, and you will not forget, I hope,
That Cæsar's vantage wins for Arthur's ruin.
I do not ask you why you hate the King;
Work for my ends and I will work for yours.

Morgause.
Agreed. But we must cast our lines for proofs,—
And yonder comes an angle for my hook.
Withdraw, my lord; leave me alone with him.

Publius.
My humble duty, madam.

[Exit.]
[Enter Peredure.]
Morgause.
Peredure!
It is kind in you to come to me, my lord.
Sit by me here. I am sad to-night and know not
What 'tis oppresses me.

Peredure.
Would that I had
The power to shield off sorrow from you, madam!

Morgause.
Why, would you use it if you had, my lord?
A little thing might do it for the nonce,
But yet I fear me you would scruple.

Peredure.
Scruple?
I am no coward; I would die to serve you.

Morgause.
I know you are no coward, and I think
You are indeed my friend.—Too much of this!
You are a poet. Sing me a sweet song,
Whose music may caress my painèd heart.

Peredure.
Lend me your cithern, lady.

Morgause.
Who says now
That I am not the royalest queen alive,
That have a king's son for my troubadour?

Peredure
[sings].

Morgause.
You sigh, my lord. Did not the lady yield,
After so sweet a plaining in her ear?
... Methinks I had not been so obdurate.
To give unsought is sweetest to the giver.
Love such as yours, that asks no recompense,
Pleads for that reason more persuasively.
... Men love not often so—in Camelot.

Peredure.
The beautiful lady of my soul, for whom
My song was made, knows not my love for her.
The greatest happiness that I can hope
Is to sing for her, sitting at her feet,
As I do now at yours. I dare not vex
Her spirit with the story of my love,
Lest I should lose the little bliss I have
Nor gain no greater neither.

Morgause.
You are too fearful.
Who would not throw a bit of glass aside
To win a diamond? You cheat yourself
With the vain semblance of a love, my lord.
Be bold and snatch the real. Why, who knows
But that your lady pines to yield herself
As you to win her?

Peredure.
Oh, do not stir up
The devil in my soul! There is a chasm
Between our ways.

Morgause.
And will you let her droop
And die, poor lady, dreaming that her life
Is wasted ointment spilt out on the floor,
When but a word were Siloam to her eyes
To let her see she had poured a priceless chrism
Over the very body of Love? If she
Were I and spoke to you as I do now,
How would you answer her?

Peredure.
Upon my knees.
Forgive me, my beloved.

Morgause.
What do you mean?

Peredure.
That you indeed are she.

Morgause.
Alas, alas!
What must you think? Indeed I knew not this.

Peredure.
Oh, kill me with your hands, not with your grief.
Oh love, love, love, I ne'er had thus offended,
But all my brain was whirling with your words.

Morgause.
We are most fortunate and unfortunate.

Peredure.
And dost thou love, then, too?

Morgause.
I have loved thee long.—
Why do you tremble so? Surely it is
No sin that we should love.

Peredure.
Can that be sin
Which makes me greater-hearted than before?

Morgause.
Why do you stand apart? Let me lean on you.—
Oh, take me in your strong arms, Peredure!
Surely it is no sin for us to kiss.

Peredure.
God help me, I scarce know where sin begins;
For I am caught up in a wind of passion
That sweeps me where it will.

[The tinkling of a lute without.]
Morgause
[starting].
It is not safe
For you to be found here so late. I hear
My women with their lutes. Nay, do not go—
Nay, but you must—but first one kiss, my love.—
Give me the key to your secret door. I'll come
To you; we shall be more secure than here.

Peredure.
Come quickly, then, or I shall scarce believe
But I have slept i' the moonlight and seen visions.
—Yet one more kiss, as sweet as the perfume
Of sandal burning in a darkened room!
I am drunk with this new joy.

Morgause.
Within two hours.

Peredure.
I live not till you come.

Morgause.
Oh, leave me, leave me!
You will be found. Farewell!

Peredure.
Love, love!

[Exit.]
Morgause.
This key
Shall unlock more secrets than a secret door.

[Ladinas climbs up from below with a lute. The scene closes.]

Scene II.

—A street in Camelot. Enter The Watch.
First Watchman.

I say it and I say it again, that the King hath the strongest arm in the kingdom.

Second Watchman.

Not a doubt of that!

Third Watchman.

Our King be a powerful fighter.

Fourth Watchman.

Not but I think our Owen, the blacksmith, would run him hard.

First Watchman.

Oh, you think, do you? You're a fine one to think. Owen, the blacksmith!

Third Watchman.

They as thinks, goes to hell; leastwise Father Aurelian says so.

First Watchman.

Owen, the blacksmith!

Fourth Watchman.

Well, I suppose a blacksmith may have muscle in his arm, as well as a king.

First Watchman.

Ah, there you goes a-supposing. The King, sir, is the King, and is not to be supposed.

Third Watchman.

Ay, 'tis a hanging matter to suppose the King—except for the Pope. The Pope can suppose anything.

First Watchman.

You go too much to the priests, David. Father Aurelian knows not everything, though I will not deny that he can say mass quicker than any priest in Camelot. The Pope cannot touch the King except in the way of cursing, and it's not likely the Holy Father would curse anybody —unless he were mightily provoked.

Second Watchman.

That's true, neighbor.

First Watchman.

The King is the head in things temporary, and the Pope in things spirituous.

Second Watchman.

And that's true, too.

First Watchman.

And I say again, the King is the strongest man in the kingdom. Before he was crowned, he pulled the great sword out o' the stone at Canterbury, where it was fast stuck, so that all the nobles in Britain had tugged away at it and none o' them so much as budged it. And they say the devil put it there, but that is not likely, for the Archbishop said that whoever should pull it out should be king, and it's not to be believed that the Archbishop would meddle with the devil. Well, at last the King came, but he was not King then, but no matter for that; and he heaved away at it and out it came so sudden that away went His Majesty heels over head backward and was near to break 's neck. And they call the place Arthur's Feat to this day, because there Arthur lost his feet. And I say, the King is the strongest man in Britain.

Third Watchman.

But that was a magic sword; it vanished afterward.

First Watchman.

Magic! Poh, David, you'll believe anything.

Third Watchman.

If it did not vanish, where is it now? Answer me that.

First Watchman.

Masters, we are set here to apprehend benefactors. But I take it that no benefactors will be in the street at this hour, for there is a law that no one be abroad after nine o' the clock but the King's watch. Let us go into Master Howell's tavern. If there be any benefactors they will be there.

Fourth Watchman.

Ay, we'll go have a pot of ale. But we must come back anon, for there might be honest men abroad.

First Watchman.

Truly, and if any honest men be stirring, they will take it ill that the watch be not by to protect them.

Third Watchman.

But 'tis against the law to be out at this time o' the night; and can a man be a true man and break the law?

First Watchman.

In a case of necessity he

may, for necessity knows no law. And I feel myself a pressing necessity now for strong waters. Come, masters.

[Exeunt.]
[Enter Guenevere, disguised as a Page, and Galahault.]
Guenevere.
Pray, how much farther is it? We have come
A long way from the palace.

Galahault.
We have but
To cross the little bridge beyond and pass
Under the row of willows to the left,
And we are there. It is a place I built
Some years ago when I had use for it.
But now the flowers have sown themselves at will
And the wild vines, untrimmed, have overflowed
The trellises and run along the ground,
Tangled with violets, and hollyhocks
Start straight and sudden in the very walks.
The simple people of the neighborhood
Say it is haunted, having no way else
To explain infrequent lights and seldom signs
Of habitation in such solitude.
Yet though it has a barbarous outside,
You'll find within that all has been made ready
Even for a queen's sojourn.

Guenevere.
I thank you, sir.
How looked he when you left him?

Galahault.
Why, as one
Who is about to die and has seen heaven
Opening before him.

Guenevere.
But did he send no word?
Oh, pardon me, I have lost all my pride,
And I must hear you speak of him.

Watch
[within].
Ho, there!

Galahault.
Stand close, it is the watch;—and speak no word,
But keep your face in shadow.

[Enter the Watch.]
First Watchman.

Stand all together that they may not rush upon us suddenly and overpower us. —Who goes there?

Galahault.

What, old Griffith! What do you mean, you old oracle? Do you forget me?

First Watchman.

Bless us, masters, if it be

not the Prince! I hope your Highness will pardon me. Now who'd a-thought 't 't would a-been your Highness? Ah, your Highness knows what's what, a-going about in the night, when all honest folk is a-bed. But it's not for me to say when your Highness should go in or come out. And I hope your Highness will not forget the watch.

Galahault
[throwing purse].

Drink my health, Griffith,—you and your fellows. And if you get very drunk, I'll see you are none the worse for it. Come, boy.

[Exeunt Galahault and Guenevere.]
Second Watchman.

What did he give you?

First Watchman.

Gold! Ah, there's a prince for you, he is! I have carried him home drunk these many times. He knows what belongs to a gentleman. And did you hear what he called me? An oracle. That's as much as to say, a man of parts. Mark Antony was an oracle—he that killed Cæsar in the play. He killed him oracularly.

Fourth Watchman.

Not a one of you had come back but for me. You were so thirsty you could see naught but the tavern window.

First Watchman.

Never you mind. We'll have a drink now as is a drink—and none the worse for waiting and letting our mouths water.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

—Merlin's Tower. Merlin. Enter Dagonet, unperceived.
Merlin.
Burn, burn, ye leaping flames! And yet in vain.
Ye cannot burn away the prison-bars
That gaol my soul from knowledge. Yet burn on;
A little and a little still I learn.
Yet all the knowledge man can win avails
But to avoid the shock of mighty forces
Which he can neither deviate nor control.
I look out on the rushing of the world
As one who sees the gloom of swirling waters
In the abyss of midnight. On they sweep,
Fatal, resistless, plunging as one mass
From turbulence to booming turbulence.
Whence? Whither? Ye occult unconscious Powers!
How shall I call upon you? By what names?
What incantations?—Fool, what do you here?

Dagonet.

Father Merlin, when will the devils appear?

Merlin.

What mean you, Fool?

Dagonet.

Were you not conjuring? I cry you mercy, I thought it was an invocation to Flibbertigibbet. Sir Kaye says that Asmodeus was your father, but the Devil himself will be saved ere his wits stop leaking.

Merlin.

I do not take that. How should his wits leak?

Dagonet.

Marry, I am sure his brain's cracked. He put me in the pillory the other day for making a jest that passed his understanding, but he will be pilloried with my jest long after I have ceased jesting with his pillory.

Merlin.

What, were you in the pillory, Dagonet?

Dagonet.

Long enough to feel an imaginary ruff about my neck still. But by the intercession of the Queen, I was delivered. I hope her issue may be nobler.

Merlin.

Her issue? Where is the sequence in this?

Dagonet.

That if her issue be no nobler than

mine, it will be something scrofulous, for I was delivered of a galled neck. Father Merlin, can you undo a spell as well as contrive one?

Merlin.

Why, Fool?

Dagonet.

The Prince of Cameliard is bewitched; he does nothing but sigh.

Merlin.

Why, you should be the physician to heal him of that ailment. For what purpose else does the King keep you?

Dagonet.

Nay, the jester is a physician that heals none but the well. The sick will have none of him, neither the sick in body nor in wit nor in heart; for the sick in their bodies desire the sympathy of long faces; and the sick in their wits think they are mocked, because they do not understand what is said; and the sick in their hearts speak another language—laughter is bitterness to them and their recreation is in groans. And Prince Peredure is in the third of these categories,—he is in love. Indeed, Father Merlin, he is past my medicining, and I would you would cure him.

Merlin.
Would you have me cure youth of love?
Then I were a magician indeed.
And yet I know, in part, of what you speak;
And I would counsel you, good Dagonet,
To have an eye upon the Queen of Orkney.
She works with devious indirections, and
This love of Peredure may be to her
A point to rest the lever on, wherewith
She pries at greater matters. Come with me;
I have employment for you. 'T works so, does 't?
Fate lays on her a bitter-hearted life;
Even as long ago I prophesied
That woe should whelm her past all woman's woe
And woe past woman's from her heart should flow
To whelm the world—and Time unwinds it so.

[Exeunt.]

Scene IV.

—A forsaken garden. Launcelot.
Launcelot.
It is the hour; and yet they do not come.
The sentinels grow drowsy at their posts;
And the wind rustles through the moonlit leaves
Like one that tosses on a sleepless bed
And wishes for the dawn. The shadows sleep,
Silent as time, beneath the silent stars;
And distant dogs behowl the loneliness.
O Moon, look down and lead my love to me! ...
Sir Galahault! Sir Galahault! I wonder
If it were wise to trust to you so far.
Nay, 't is unknightly in me to misdoubt
So true a heart. Who else but he had made
The evil fortune of my love his own
And dared for me all I myself can dare?
And yet to take my joy within his doors,
With secret entrance like a midnight thief,—
It irks me. Bah, I am a fool! What's place
Or time, when I clasp hands with Guenevere?
To look into her eyes is to forget
That space exists, beyond her circling arms!
Hark! did I hear the rustle of a cloak?
Or was 't the wind i' the lilacs?
[Enter Galahault.]
Galahault!
Alone?

Galahault.
Are you alone? And is all safe?
For what I bring with me is worth all Britain.

Launcelot.
All Britain? All the world!
[Enter Guenevere.]
My queen! my queen!

Guenevere.
Sir Galahault, needs must that once you loved.
'T is some lost lady's memory, sure, that stirs
Your will to do these gentle deeds.

Galahault.
I know
Love is the one intelligible word
Life utters.—But I pray you, pardon me [smiling]
,
I know, besides, that though you throw an alms
Of kind thoughts to a man whose life is lived,
The fleet-foot hours are restless to become
Spendthrift of richer treasure. Fare you well!
I will not irk you with a formal leave.

[Exit.]
Guenevere.
Now!

Launcelot.
Heart to heart!

Guenevere.
Oh, do not jar with speech
This perfect chord of silence!—Nay, there needs
Thy throat's deep music. Let thy lips drop words,
Like pearls, between thy kisses.

Launcelot.
Thy speech breaks
Against the interruption of my lips,
Like the low laughter of a summer brook
Over perpetual pebbles.

Guenevere.
Nay but, love,
It is the saucy pebbles that provoke
The brook's discourse; for, where the bed is smooth,
The waters glide as silent as a Dryad
That disappears among the silent trees.

Launcelot.
And so our kisses still provoke our speech.

Guenevere.
Why, if the night must first be smooth of kisses,
I fear that I shall talk until the dawn.

Launcelot.
Alas, that dawn should be so soon!

Guenevere.
We will
Divide each moment in a thousand parts,
And every part a pearl; and they shall make
A rosary of little lucent globes,
Innumerous as the dewdrops of the dawn:
And, counting them, night shall seem infinite.

Launcelot.
Yet even now we count them, and they pass.
Sit, Guenevere, here where the moonlight laughs
Across your hair, and the night wind may touch
Your throat and chin, as I do now.

Guenevere.
O love,
My lips will weary you, too often kissed.

Launcelot.
Why, then the night will weary of the moon.

Guenevere.
But I'll be strange and chide; and then a cloud
Will pass between you and the moon.

Launcelot.
Nay, then
The moon will 'broider with her light the cloud,—
And I will kiss again, to hear your chiding.

Guenevere.
My voice will weary you, too rarely still.

Launcelot.
Then will the leaves grow weary of the wind.—
Hark, how they laugh into each other's ears
And whisper secrets for pure merriment!

Guenevere.
My love will weary you, too undisguised,
Too wild, too headlong, too unlimited!

Launcelot.
Then God will weary of the joy of heaven!
O love, in whom even Love's perversity
Is lovely! O chameleon-colored heart!
Look, I have seen a sky at sunset lapse
From gold and flame to misted violet
And through a thousand shifting colors more,
Olive and pearl and myriad hues of rose,
Each lovelier than the last. Even such a sky
Thy heart is.

Guenevere.
Then must thou be like the sun,
For from his kiss the sky takes on her hue.
And surely, if the sun took human shape,
He would become even such a man as thou,
My live Apollo! Spendthrift of thy brightness!
—Nay, let us stay awhile yet, for the night
Doth seem attunèd to our hearts and they
Incorporate with the night. Was e'er before
Such rapture in the air?

Launcelot.
O teasing Queen!
You slip through my desires and glide away
As a seal swims. Ah, why will you be coy?
Yet coy or bold, each shifting mood you wear
More than the last entrains.

Guenevere.
I give you all;
I am no niggard to keep something back.
But yet, I pray you, stay a little while.
There is a sweetness in all things that pass;
We love the moonlight better for the sun,
And the day better when the night is near;
The last look on a place where we have dwelt
Reveals more beauty than we dreamed before,
When it was daily. This is my last hour
Of girlhood; and, although the wider days
Bring greater guerdons and more large delights,
Yet this one thing they shall not bring again.
Love, yet a little while!

Launcelot.
Your girlhood, say you?

Guenevere.
I know not how to tell you—
The morn that followed on my wedding night,
War called the King to Cornwall,—since which hour
I have not seen him.—That one night, indeed,
We lay down side by side;—but, seeing I shrank
And shook as one that fears she knows not what,
The King unsheathed his sword Excalibur
And placed it for a sign between us twain,
—And all night long the sword divided us.

Launcelot.
Mine, mine, all mine!

Guenevere.
All thine, my Launcelot,
Body and soul! My husband!

Launcelot.
Ay, dear wife,
Although the cowled monastic trees have been
The only priests of our great bridal.

Guenevere.
Husband!
I laugh into your hair with the mere joy
Of saying it over so. ... The wicked stars
Are twinkling with a mischievous delight
To spy on us.

Launcelot.
Then are they like you now,
The roguery of heaven. Anon, you'll change
And be its splendor and its mystery.
Let us go in; I have seen you as a vision
Of morning in the hills, and as a Queen,
And as the dainty mimicry of a boy;
But I would see you grand and undisguised
And clothed upon with moonlight and sweet air.

[They enter the house. Then all is silent, save for a rustle of wind in the leaves and the voice of a distant watchman, calling the hour. A nightingale begins to sing in the thicket.]
Curtain.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—The Same. Enter Launcelot and Guenevere.
Launcelot.
It is the morning star that hangs so high;
Love, you must leave me.

Guenevere.
Must I so indeed?
How can I leave you?—For I live in you.
You are the only concord in my life;
Without you I am but a jarring note
And all the world mere noise.

Launcelot.
No, leave me not.
What though the world outcast us! We will be
A world unto ourselves. Let Britain sink
Beneath the Atlantic and the solid base
And universal dome of things dissolve
And like the architecture of a cloud
Melt in the blue inane! You are my country,
My world, my faith, my rounded orb of life.

Guenevere.
Without you life would be but breathing death.

Launcelot.
Oh, we will find some island in the seas,
Some place forsaken of the unjust world,
A larger image of this garden here,
Where nature's luxury and Art's decay
Proclaim emancipation—

Guenevere.
There's no such place.
The greedy world would rush in at your heels
And turn your paradise into a mart.
Nay, you were right, and I must leave you, love,
And ere yon pale streaks ripen into rose,
Resume the Queen. But yet one breath beneath
These morning-cool old elms before we part,
One last love-dreaming!—How can I be sure
Thou lovest me? Is life so generous
Of joy?

Launcelot.
Oh, look in my true eyes and say
If thou canst doubt me!

Guenevere.
Nay, I doubt thee not.
If I had doubted, could I thus have stolen
At midnight in a shameless page's suit
And—oh, thou knowest I could not!

Launcelot.
Sweet and true!

Guenevere.
I feel as if I had put off the Queen
With the Queen's robes and had become your page.

Launcelot.
You are my Queen, whatever garb you wear,
And I your knight forever. But, thus clad,
A thousand beauties are revealed, before
Known only to surmise, or by foreknowledge
That every beauty must be yours divined.
Ay, cover 't with thy cloak! The prettiness
O' the action o'er-repays my beggared eyes,
Robbed of the treasure of that loveliness.

Guenevere.
For thy delight, love, I will dress me so
Ten times a day—but never as a mask
Again. Why wouldst thou send Sir Galahault
To bring me here?

Launcelot.
For thy security.
Here we are free from Argus-eyed intrigue.

Guenevere.
I like it not—or rather would not like it,
Were I not too content to let my head
Lie on your shoulder here—so—while Time seems
To pause awhile and dream, beholding us.
It is too much as if we shrank some peril;
And I would shrink from nothing. Prithee, love,
Henceforward let us meet without these shifts.

Launcelot.
O royal-hearted!

Guenevere.
Sweet, you hurt me.

Launcelot.
Nay,
I would not hurt you. I would have my love
A furnace fiery as the orient king's,
But you should walk in it and be unharmed.

Guenevere.
Was ever woman loved as you love me?

Launcelot.
I think there never was; 't is something new
Whereof I am discoverer.

[Exeunt among the trees.]

Scene II.

—The adjacent country. Before the tent of Arthur. Arthur and Godmar.
Godmar.
Sire!

Arthur.
What is it, Godmar?

Godmar.
From the crest
Of yonder hill one can see Camelot.

Arthur.
A forced march would have brought us there to-day;
But to what end? The soldiers are fatigued.

Godmar.
Sire, we have marched but fifteen miles to-day.
We started late and are already camped
While it is hardly afternoon. Besides,
The camp is careless as a hunt.

Arthur.
What then?

Godmar.
You will destroy all discipline.

Arthur.
No, Godmar.
They have earned a little ease; let them enjoy it.
For tension unrelieved relieves itself
And is ne'er taut again. Let them have time
To talk and tell old stories in their tents
And they'll forget their hardships, and each soldier
Will presently begin to find himself
Of moment to the State, no mere machine
Useful and used as bows and catapults,
But personal; and Britain thus will grow
A thing wherein he hath a stake himself,
And he will fight the better and submit
More willing to her rule in that his will
By head and heart alike is reinforced.
Have couriers been sent forward?

[Enter Merlin.]
Godmar.
One at dawn
And one when we encamped.

Arthur.
How camest thou here?

Merlin.
On no enchanted steed; a plain mule brought me.
I set out when your messenger arrived
This morning. I have tidings you must hear
Before your entry.

Arthur.
Well.

Merlin.
The Emperor
Has sent a special envoy to your court,
Whose undivulged commission, though with care
And shrewdly hid, I have smelled out. In brief,
Rome sends to bully you with warlike threats
To pay the tribute.

Arthur.
You are my counsellors;
What are your minds on this?

Godmar.
I am for war.
Here is occasion for new victories
And a world-wider glory. For my part,
I think that peace is when the nation sleeps
And when it wakes, that's war. For men in peace,
Lacking brave emulation and the zeal
Of a great cause, fall to their petty ends
And, letting their high virtues atrophy,
Wallow in lust and avarice, till the heart
And nobler functions rot away and leave
A people like an oyster, all stomach.
Our men are bold with long success, valiant,
Well-disciplined, far better warriors
Than Roman libertines, and mercenaries
That fight with half their hearts. The cause is just;
For while Rome kept her legions in the land,
Defending us from the sea-robbing Jutes
And Saxons and against the mountain hordes
Of barbarous Picts, there was a show of reason
Why she should tax us; now we stand alone
And ask and yield no favors.

Merlin.
Nor would I
Advise your Majesty to yield an inch
To this preposterous impudence. And yet
Delay advantages the crescent power,
And we are growing stronger every year
And Rome declining. If we match her now,
Ere long we'll have the odds. Her boundless wealth
Gives her resources which our general
Too lightly weighs. Nor should we overrate
Our own security. We are one in rule
But not in spirit yet, and local feeling
Still outruns national. The Jutes in Kent
Are yet a daily threat. Therefore, my liege,
My counsel is that we meet words with words,
Gain time to expel the aliens from our shores
And discord from our hearts. Indeed I think
The glory of your reign will more consist
In leaving to the world a living State
Than in your victories. And what most imports you
Is to secure by wise executive
The unity and welfare of the realm.

Arthur.
You have each spoken well, but I incline
To Godmar's thought. You, Merlin, know full well
The unity of Britain is the heart
And purpose of my life; but I conceive
This war will make the country more at one
Than all our statecraft, for old enmities
Will melt away into one common heart
When Britons fight against a common foe.
Besides, you shall yourself be deputy
At Camelot, and our home management
Shall be no loser. For the Jutes in Kent,
We'll make them our allies, confirm their lands
In fealty to ourself and win them over
With promises o' the richer spoils of Rome.
For I intend to sack her opulent towns
And pay my soldiers from their treasuries;
And this sea-people will supply me ships
And sailors cunning in sea-faring war.
And, more than this, I have ancestral claims
To the imperial crown. We'll not return
Until the Pope has crowned me Emperor.

Godmar.
No man on earth save Arthur, King of Britain,
Could wield so glorious an enterprise.

Arthur.
What say you, Merlin?

Merlin.
'T is a noble plan,
Better than mine though something hazardous,
And for a lesser captain foolhardy.
And yet it has a weakness, for I fear
The greatening power and riches of the Jutes.
If Britain ever fall, 't will be by them.

Arthur.
They are too dangerous to be enemies;
They must be friends.

Merlin.
My liege, a word with you
In private.

Godmar.
Sire, permit that I withdraw.

[Exit.]
Arthur.
What bitter news now, Merlin?

Merlin.
Be prepared
For any unexpected blow you will.
I fear your sister has some plot in hand
Which I have not unravelled.

Arthur.
Morgause again!
I have a senseless superstitious dread
That from her comes my ruin;—but that's a dream.
I'll not be goblin-ridden. Come within
The tent and tell me more of your suspicion.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

—Camelot. Night. The Gardens. Through the trees the towers and battlements. Enter Morgause and Ladinas from opposite sides, meeting.
Morgause.
Well?

Ladinas.
I have seen them.

Morgause.
Seen them?

Ladinas.
From the arbor
I watched them as they strolled; yet too far off
To hear their words—and yet their words were sweet.
I could tell that although I heard them not,
They leaned so to each other, like a pair
Of rutting deer that rub their heads together
Before they couple. What they said, no doubt,
Had made a pretty song for the King's ear,
Could it have been re-worded.

Morgause.
Was this all
You saw?

Ladinas.
Be patient. I have not done yet.
I saw them kiss—and Launcelot looked about
With guilty fear, but Guenevere looked not
But hung upon him motionless and dumb,
Reckless of all the world. Much more I saw,
But to be brief—at last, after what words
I know not, they departed, she with head
Erect, poised firmly on her royal throat,
But he with wild eyes and a haggard face.
I followed them. They went in by the wicket
O' the private stairway of the Queen's apartments.

Morgause.
What say you? In broad noon?

Ladinas.
Ay, in broad noon.
At least, she sins with royal carelessness.

Morgause.
Her royal carelessness! Her royal throat!
Is she the only queen, then, in the world?
Doth she bewitch you, too? Where got she drugs
To make men love her? Do you find her fairer?
Beware, La Rouse! You know how I can hate.

Ladinas.
Fairer? There are three fair ladies in the world,
Iseult of Ireland, Guenevere, and thou—
And thou art first among them. I will not
Deny how beautiful she is, my queen—
Thou art the fairer that she is so fair.

Morgause.
Leave courtly phrases till another time.
What did you when her royalty had passed
Into the palace?

Ladinas.
I bethought me then
Of Peredure's apartments and the key.
I had no thought to find an use so soon
For that—love-trinket. I ensconced myself
Behind a pillar in the gallery
That overlooks the window of the Queen,—

Morgause.
And there you saw—?

Ladinas.
Enough! Not all I would,—
There was a tantalizing incompleteness
In what I saw; something, indeed, as when
One thinks one sees more than one really does
When the wind frolics with the petticoats.
And yet I saw enough to make the Queen
A laughter and a byword to the world.

Morgause.
Ha, ha, ha!
So then my virtuous brother will receive
A douse of dirty water for a welcome,
When he returns to-morrow morn. The pomp
Of his victorious arms will only serve
To pageant out his shame.

Ladinas.
I have set down
A formal notice with the Seneschal
That at high noon to-morrow, when the King
Ascends the throne in the Great Hall to hear
The grievances and quarrels of his knights
And render justice, I shall then appear
And in the presence of the court “impeach
Guenevere, Queen of Britain, Sovran Lady
Of the Most Knightly and Christian Fellowship
Of the Round Table, et cetera, of treason
To the most gracious person of the King
And to the safety of the realm, in living
In shameless license with Sir Launcelot;
And also I impeach for the same cause
Sir Launcelot du Lac, the son of Ban—”

Morgause.
Spare me the legal rigmarole. By this,
The noise is bruited over the whole palace.

Ladinas.
Be sure of that; Sir Kaye will never keep
So rare a bit of scandal to himself.

Morgause.
Why, then we have won the throw. Oh, Ladinas,
You have done that to-day that shall shake thrones!
Launcelot will not tamely yield himself;
Still less will he sit by and see his leman
Dragged from him to the stake. This work of ours
Casts Britain to the pit for the beasts of war
To glut their bloodthirst on.—What's that to us?
This upstart Queen and that false-hearted prig
Who calls himself her husband and my brother—
She lied, my mother, when she said she bore him!
And, if he be her husband, what proves that
But that he is a perjurer?—If she 'scape,
He may be slain; and if they live, the shame
Will daub them till they die. In any case
I have revenge. I could carouse to-night
Till the elves startled in the glens to hear
The echo of my revelry. Come, kiss me!
Oh, Ladinas, I am drunk with merriment.
Again! again! My blood is flames of fire.

Ladinas.
Your lips burn and your cheeks are hot. Morgause!
My pantheress! My splendid devil!

[Enter Merlin.]
Morgause.
Beware!

Merlin.
You need no mock propriety. I am
Too gray for envy and too well aware
Of what you do for this play of concealment.
And other things I know; be warned in time,—
Let your intents take wing.

Morgause.
You are too late.
Go to Sir Kaye and ask the news of him.
I do not fear you, Merlin.

Merlin.
Fear you God?

Morgause.
God cheated me—you know of what I speak.
I am his enemy as He is mine.

[Exeunt Morgause and Ladinas.]
Dagonet
[springing up from behind a clump of bushes].

Poor God! Oh, Father Merlin, such roguery as I have overheard! But I will tell you anon, for now I must see whither they are going.

[Exit.]
[Enter Kaye, Gawaine, and Peredure.]
Kaye.

It is even as I tell you, gentlemen. Sir Ladinas has accused the Queen of high treason, for amours with Sir Launcelot.

Peredure.

Impossible! He dare not.

Kaye.

The indictment was placed in my hand not above an hour ago. God knows how 't will all end.

Peredure.

By heaven, he is not chary of his life!

Gawaine.

I say 't is an outrage. What an if it were true? They are the royalest pair in Christendom; 't is shameful to seek to dishonor them.

Peredure.
True? Why, you lily-livered boy, you dare
To hint it? By all the saints, if you were not
Your mother's son, that word had been your last.

[A light appears in a window above.]
Gawaine.
I pray you, pardon me; she is your sister.
I had forgot it. But I mean to say
That, were Sir Launcelot guilty twenty times,
He doth as far this Ladinas o'erpeer
As mountains anthills. Fie, a worm, a snail!

Kaye.
'T is most deplorable. Let us bring the news
To Galahault and the others.

[Exeunt Kaye and Gawaine.]
Merlin.
Prince, do you see the light in yonder casement?

Peredure.
It is the chamber of the Queen of Orkney.
What of it?

Merlin.
Would you know who has set on
This foul conspiracy against the Queen,
Make you that light your searchlamp.

Peredure.
What, you mean—?

Merlin.
I mean that if you follow up my clue
To thread the meaning of this labyrinth,
'T will draw you, like a moth, into that flame.
I mean that in that dark unriddled heart
That beats beneath the beauteous breasts of Orkney,
Lies like a cancer the true reason why
Your sister's fame is smirched.

Peredure.
By heaven, 't is false!
As soon the rosy labor of the dawn
Might bring forth darkness. Now, by all hell's fiends
Unless I meet an enemy ere long
Beside old age and boyhood, I shall break
My sword against the senseless stones! What, she?

Merlin.
Alas, I pity you, but truth will not;
It is the truth.

[Exit.]
Peredure.
By the five wounds of Christ,
It is the foulest lie that e'er was told.
—Lamp of my soul, behind yon lattice lies
More mystery, more beauty, more delight
Than grizzled Merlin with his lapse of years
Has ever dreamed of. There's more credit writ
In thy dear smile than all his subtleties.
Ah, opal-hearted! now she doth unclothe
The solemn sweep of her majestic limbs,
The mystery of her awful loveliness;
And draws the curtains of her couch about her
As some earth-goddess of old northern tales
Might draw the heavy drapery of the night.

[Enter Dagonet.]
Dagonet.

My lord!—My lord!—Even her casement throws him into a catalepsy. Now what brew hath the witch borrowed from Circe, that this poor poet should be transformed into an ass? What ho, my lord!

Peredure.

Is it you, Dagonet?

Dagonet.

Like a chair in a dark room; you wish I were out of the way. (Aside).
Oh, that I were anything but what I am, the bearer of ill news! I could wish I were a dog, a mongrelly cur, with somebody kicking me. (Aloud.)
Are you brave, my lord?

Peredure.

Brave?

Dagonet.

I know you are as quick in a quarrel as a Spaniard, and will whip out your rapier on less provocation than any man at the court. But are you brave?

(Sings)

Are you brave, sir?

Peredure.

Sure, the Fool's mad. Good Dagonet, I am not in the humor for these fopperies.

Dagonet.

Said I not that I was in the way? But, cry you mercy now, would you not thank even a joint-stool, if barking your shins against it saved you from a stumble into the kitchen water-butt?

Peredure.

Past doubt, Dagonet. What have I to do with this?

Dagonet.

Prithee, bark your shins against me, then, and save yourself from drowning, for the butt that lies in your path is bottomless.

Peredure.

I am in a mood to be exasperated by trifles. If you have ought to me, say it; if not, pray leave me to myself.

Dagonet.

Indeed I have something to say, but I know not rightly how to go about it. Sir, you are in love—

Peredure.

Zounds!

Dagonet.

And I would not have you made the tool of an unworthy woman.

Peredure.

Why, you piebald rascally slave—

Dagonet.

Be patient with me, sir; and if I do not prove your love a lewd trickster and traitress,

beat me from here to Orkney and back again.

Peredure.

Lewd?—traitress?—Oh, Christ in heaven! You rogue! you varlet! do you dare—?

Dagonet.

Hear me, for I swear I speak no more but the truth! Sir, I have loved you since you were a child on my knee and used to play with my bauble for a toy. Do you think I would tell you so bitter a thing for wantonness?

Peredure.

Nay, it cannot be but you are abused; some villain, some scurvy rancorous villain hath abused you—but 't was I he aimed at with his knavery. Who was it, Dagonet? Tell me and if I do not run him through with my sword as I would a snake—My God, if I do not find some tangible enemy, I shall burst my heart.

Dagonet.

An I thought my eyes were such rascals as you have called them, I would pluck them out. Oh, my lord, tear this false woman out of your heart. She is not worthy that you grieve for her.

Peredure.

What, will you persuade me the world's a madman's dream? have a care, have a care! I grow dangerous.

Dagonet.

Come with me and see for yourself. I would I could not show you what I must.

Peredure.

Lead on;—but if you have played me false, you had better have fallen in a tiger's jaws.

Dagonet.

I have no more to say. If you will not hear, see.

[Exeunt Dagonet and Peredure.]
[Enter Launcelot and Guenevere.]
Guenevere.
I know that we must take up the old life
Again, made harder than it was before
But sweeter too. And yet it is all so new,
So glad! A little longer we will dream.
To-day we will not think of anything
But the dear joy of loving.

Launcelot.
The kind Fates
Have given to us this hour. We will not mar it.
To-morrow's riddles let to-morrow solve.

Guenevere.
I am so glad I am a woman, love.
I have quarrelled with my sex; but now I see
The heart is keener to recoil from wrong
Than to divine the right, for all my life
Was thwarted but I guessed not why. But now
I would not be a man for all the world.

Launcelot.

Nay, I must pity you that you are a woman, for so you miss life's greatest gift—the joy of loving one.

Guenevere.

I would love the woman's way. It is great to be a man, but it is delicious to be a woman.

[Enter Merlin at some distance, with an astrolabe.]
Launcelot.
Look yonder! How like a visioned memory
Old Merlin glides among the trees

Guenevere.
He comes
This way; I will accost him. Merlin, ho,
What have you there?

Merlin.
An instrument to measure
The motions of the stars.

Guenevere.
Then have you been
In converse with them of the weirds of men;
For you are Destiny's familiar.

Merlin.
As
The child is of its mother, who unfolds
What shreds of wisdom it may comprehend.
Yon skies, that look so mild, are threatening;
Some evil passes in the dark but what
Its name or form the stars will not declare
Till it unclose its formidable jaws
And fire-like eat its prey and then itself.

Guenevere.
How wisely they look down from their high heaven,
Meeting our baffled eyes with that clear sight
Which no enigmas barrier! It must be
In them, if anywhere, our eyes may read
The secrets of our dooms.

Merlin.
Would you yourself
Interrogate their silence?

Guenevere.
Nay, for then
With each succeeding day I must renew
The burden of the accumulated ills
Of a whole life. Let all be unforeseen
And then we shall not suffer till our time.

Launcelot.
Speak not so sadly. I seem to have just found out
That human suffering is but a cheap price
We pay for heavenly bliss. Think rather, then,
Of joy—

Guenevere.
The greatest joy is greater still,
When it comes sharp and sudden.—What was that?

Merlin.
Why, I heard nothing.

Guenevere.
Nothing? And you, my lord?

Launcelot.
Nothing. [The light in the window is extinguished.]


Guenevere.
I heard a woman's shriek.—Who comes?

[Enter Galahault.]
Galahault.
Madam, I have sought you everywhere. Have you heard
This tale that flies from lip to lip?

Guenevere.
What tale?

Galahault.
Then you must hear 't from me. Sir Ladinas
Has made a formal accusation, touching
The friendship you have shown for Launcelot,
Which he misconstrues for a lawless love,
Disloyal to the King.

Launcelot.
The dream is done—
So suddenly—

Merlin
(apart).
Alas, then, it is true.

Galahault
(to Launcelot).
Be scanter of your speech, lest Merlin note.
The Queen's good name's at stake.

Guenevere.
Why, gentlemen,
What ails it with you that you stand aghast?
It is the penalty of eminence
That people grow familiar with our names;
So reverence becomes garrulity,
Then flippancy, then foulness,—till the highest
Is made most common, and even the Sacred Name
Debased to vile and lewd profanities.
Come, Launcelot, I shall keep you at my side
Even more than hitherto, that men may know
That what I do is not for them to question.

[Exeunt Guenevere and Launcelot.]
Merlin.

How royally she carries it!—Sir Galahault, you are the greatest and most powerful prince in the kingdom, and you have a shrewd knowledge of men and things. Why will you be an onlooker in life, not a participant?

Galahault.

I have drained my cup, and now I drink the air. There is nothing left for me but the ideas of things. What is all this in search of?

Merlin.
Sir, I grow old and I need younger men
To hold my hands up, like the Hebrew statesman.
You are a man fit for diplomacy
And I would have you for co-laborer
In the affairs of state; but chiefly now
I would have you assist me to undo
This plot against the Queen. Guilty or guiltless,
The credence of her guilt would rend asunder
Our scarce yet welded kingdom.

Galahault.
I will do
All that I may for Launcelot and the Queen.
She has bound me to her with her regal ways;
And he not only conquered my domain
And won me in allegiance to the King,—
His courtesy finished what his sword began,
And won my heart too.

Merlin.
So with me as well
The personal wish chimes with the general good.
For Launcelot, as you know, was in some sort
My foster-son; the Lady of the Lake
Guided his first dream-thinking and myself
Taught his quick-summered youth.—Go, then, about
Among the lords and ladies of the court
And everywhere proclaim her innocence.
Opinion propagates itself; your stout
Maintenance of her honor will convince
Many by its mere confidence and make
A party in her favor. In two hours
Meet me in the laboratory in the tower.

Galahault.
Wisely devised; I'll set about it straight.

[Exit.]
Merlin.
O Runic charactery, engraved in stars
Upon the everlasting vault! wilt thou
Forever mock us with unriddled speech?
Has thought no cleverness to cheat from Time
The knowledge of thy grammar? And ye spirits
Of earth and air that with uncertain voice
Speak into too frail words divinities!
Ye oracles and inspirations vague!
We hear your utterance but we miss the sense.
I am the wisest brain of them that know,
And I'm Time's fool. The Queen, from whom I thought
The perpetuity of the State should grow,
Even she herself is the first sundering
From whence disintegration spreads to all!
Her fate has come upon her and the King's,
And I foresaw not and forewarned them not.
Nay, I myself wrought Arthur to her suit,
Forethinking the realm's welfare. Alas, alas!
I feel the bode of prophecy within me,
And now surely I know that all my craft
Shall be undone and all the King's high dream,
And the Round Table shall pass utterly
Which, like a sacrament, showed forth the round world
In that ideal unto which it moves.
How can this be? Blind Chance, that seems at times
To have malevolent intelligence—
[Enter Peredure, with dress disordered and without his sword.]
The Prince of Cameliard? In this disorder?
What is the matter, sir?

Peredure.
Art thou not Merlin?
I think thou art; but make me sure, for I
Cannot believe my eyes are truth-tellers.

Merlin.
For certain, I am Merlin. But, my lord,
Why start you so and stare? You are not well.

Peredure.
Why, I am glad to hear it. To be well
Is to be one in millions. I am glad
That you are well, sir—very glad, by heaven!

Merlin.
This is too serious for the matter, and
Attention is not in it. What would you say?
What ill has happened? Alas, he hears me not.

Peredure.
I killed him in her bed.

Merlin.
Killed, say you, sir?

Peredure.
I see you have white hairs and a white beard;
But yet I know what you, for all your wrinkles,
Have never dreamed of. There is not a woman
In all the kingdom, ay, in all the world,
But she's a—magpie. Let's be merry, then!
Let us have cantharids and wine!

Merlin.
My lord,
Withdraw with me. There's wine within.

Peredure.
There's blood
Within—wine, do you call it?—Ay, the butt's
Split open now and all the wine's on the floor.
The thirsty planks drink it up gloriously.
In her bed, did you hear?—Just heaven! I tell you
I killed him in her bed.

Merlin.
Whom did you kill?

Peredure.
Not her, not her! Look you, how modestly
She gathers up her kirtle as she walks;
And yet within 's twelve hours she hath been—Faugh!

Merlin.
What look you on?

Peredure.
Not her! She was too fair;
I could not dapple that white skin with blood.—
Give me your hand; I would touch something.—Death?
She is not dead. How can her spirit walk?
—Why, so! Why, so! She is gone again. Oh, Merlin,
The moveless stars in heaven shift and reel
And there is nothing stable in the world.

Merlin.
Come in with me out o' the damp night air;
It is too chill to stand without your mantle.

Peredure.
Off, strange old man! I have a poniard yet.
Off! I will kill the man that hinders me.—
Why, how it glistens in the treacherous moonlight!
Is it alive, that it should look on me
With such a haunted silence?—'T is like the gleam
Of death-fires in the cruel sea at night.—
What does it say with its cold eye?—Why, now—
God!—it comes back—that pallid room—Morgause—
How fearfully a dead man glares by moonlight!—
False, false!—O Christ!—O pitiful Virgin!—false!

[He kills himself. As he falls, Merlin bends over him in the moonlight.]
Curtain.

ACT V.

Scene.—Camelot. The Great Hall of the Palace. On the left, two thrones and other raised seats, not quite so high. Dagonet, Bors, and Attendants.
First Attendant.

Careful there, careful! Have you no respect for cloth of gold? Will you handle velvet like fustian?

Dagonet
[to Bors].

No, but they will wear fustian like velvet. And you heard them in the servants' hall, you would swear they were all dukes, every man of them.

First Attendant.

That will do. There is much elsewhere to be made ready and the King is even now at the gates of the city.

[Exeunt Attendants.]
Bors.

It is the saddest tale I ever heard.

Dagonet.

I'll never attempt to undeceive a

happy man again, if he be in love with Merlin's grandmother, Lilith herself. What a plague had I to do interfering? The devil take all meddlers, say I?

Bors.

And Merlin bade you seek me with this news?

Dagonet.

Knowing you to be a staunch friend to Launcelot, for he connects this new horror with the accusation against—

Bors.

Peace, break you off! Here is the Queen herself.

[Enter Guenevere.]

Good morrow to your Majesty.

Guenevere.
Sir Bors,
You are my friend, I think; you are Launcelot's kinsman;
You know—the world knows—all but Arthur know,
Who comes with an unsuited holiday,
What hangs above our heads. That we are guiltless
Does not secure us from a guilty doom.
We have need now of friends. Our dandies here
Give me scant courtesy. I will not think
That you too hold me cheaply or mistrust
The faultless knighthood of Sir Launcelot.

Bors.
I know that Launcelot loves you—with such love
As a true knight may offer when his lady
Is wedded to another. And I would,
In frankness, lady, you had been his bride.
You had been none the less a queen; his father
Was King of Benwick and his father's brother,
My father, Bors, the King of Gaul. We both
Are of as royal blood as Arthur is
And might be kings, but that we love the King.
For him we have resigned our ancient thrones,
Content to be his liegemen, simple knights
Of that Round Table which is the great sign
Of brotherhood and true equality,
Such is the love we bear him; but if he
Should do dishonor to Sir Launcelot
Or thee, whose knight Sir Launcelot is sworn,
Let him take heed. We may resume our crowns.

Guenevere.
I thank you, sir. You are a noble friend.
Sir Ector de Maris will be with us,
Pelleas, Lionel, and Bleoberis—

Bors.
Ay, madam, all our kin.

Guenevere.
It will be much
To have so strong a party in the court.
Among the knights I brought from Cameliard
Some must be faithful. There is great devotion
Among them to my brother, and my brother
Loves me as his own soul. He will not fail—

Bors.
Alas, my lady, then you have not heard!

Guenevere.
Heard? What? Has aught—?

Bors.
Oh, steel yourself, my Queen,
For I must be the advertisement of woe.
Peredure—

Guenevere.
Speak! What ill has happened to him?

Bors.
He is dead.

Guenevere.
Dead? my brother—dead!

Bors.
Alas,
It is so—dead, and slain by his own hand.

Guenevere.
Grief loves to shoot twice at the selfsame mark,—
Ah, like a skilful archer whose first shaft
Hath pierced the centre, sends a second after,
That with unerring niceness splits the first.
Where did he this?

Bors.
There were two witnesses,
Merlin and Dagonet. Let him tell the rest.

Dagonet.

It happened on this wise, my lady. Your brother was enamoured of the Queen of Orkney, —but in honorable fashion, for he fancied her to be as spotless as a Glastonbury nun. And with this he was fallen into such a melancholy that I feared he would lose his wits. I loved your brother and in my folly I sought to deliver him. I knew what a false jade was the theme of his idolatry and, indeed, that she was this six months coddling with that fine-feathered incontinent French magpie, Sir Ladinas de la Rouse. So I lay in watch for the couple, thinking that the truth, though a vile-tasting medicine, would cure him; and yesternight, finding the two together, I brought Peredure word.

Guenevere.
You did well, Dagonet; for 'tis far better
To know and suffer than to be deceived
And dote on loathsomeness. I knew myself
Of this infatuation of my brother,
Yet in the thick and tumult of my sorrows
I took no heed of his. You have done well;
No knight of the Round Table sheathes within
His corselet a more true-steeled heart than you
Cloak with your motley.

Dagonet.
I thank you for that speech.
I did not this, forgetful of my Queen.
When first I came on Ladinas and Morgause,
Their talk was all of you,—how he had used
A key that she had begged from Peredure,
To gain an entrance to the prince's rooms,
From whence he said, he had seen—

Guenevere.
I shall not fail
To recognize this service at its worth.—
Go on! When you told this to Peredure?

Dagonet.
Then was he like a man that puts his feet
On ice whose wintry firmness has grown rotten
With the April in the air, and when he thinks
All steadfast, feels it sink from under him.
Away he starts, wild as the tameless horse
Of Tartary, and comes to where they lie.
When I, less swift of foot, came up with him,
I found him standing dumb, with bloody sword,
Over the twitching corpse of that false knight,
His senseless eyes fixed on Morgause, who cowered
Behind the curtains, silent for dismay.
Me she saw not, for ere I crossed the sill,
He threw the hot sword at her feet and fled,
Crying, “She is too fair, she is too fair!”

Guenevere.
Oh, better were it if his righteous heel
Had stamped that viper out o' the world. Go on!

Dagonet.
There is no more to tell. I followed him,
But ere I reached the gardens, he was dead.
I found him lying pallid in the moonlight
And ancient Merlin bending over him.

Guenevere.
He was too delicate to face the blasts
Of this world's winter. He was all compassion,
All gentleness, all love, all tender heart,
So sensitive of thought that he could scarce
Endure the passing of an aimless sigh,
So frail of spirit that the silent days
Were in themselves too burdensome a load.
So,—let him rest. The jarring of the world
Frets his fine ear no longer.—Gentlemen,
Pray, leave me. I would think of him alone.

Bors.
Our hearts are with you.

[Exeunt Bors and Dagonet.]
Guenevere.
Oh, that I could weep
The copious blubber of a village maid,
Uncurbed by royal pride, or consciousness
That o'ermistrusts and will not slack the bit!
Oh, could I weep—and empty woe with weeping!
There is a swelling passion in my heart
Will split all yet. I cannot like a girl
Draw 't off in driblets. Oh, my blameless brother,
Undone for a guilty world! And that which led
To the discovery that was thy doom,
A plot born of a woman's hate for me
And of my reckless fate-contending love!
Oh, what a tangled anarchy is life!
If the rash Will strive in the helter-skelter
To weave for itself a little ordered space,
Its skilless touch pulls unexpected threads
That tighten to 'ts own strangling. Peredure
Is but the first. The implacable net is drawn
About the feet of all that love us. Bors—
Poor faithful, merry Dagonet—all who hold
To Launcelot's cause—must all these spend their hearts
That we may love? Do I love Launcelot?
Oh, if I loved him, could I draw him on
So to his own undoing? Shall his name
That even in the young April of his deeds
Greatens in splendor like the northering sun,
Be made a refuse for the ragman world
To fret and fumble with a prodding stick?
O God! Shall I uncage the captive wolves
Of war, to harry the whole land and rend
The offenceless kern, to give my sorrow ease?
It must not be. What right have I to love,
What right have I to joy, that should so play
The Tambourlaine and scourge so many woes
To drag its chariot like his captive kings?
It must not be. Oh, let me take an oath
Before high heaven! Launcelot, I must save thee!
Oh, heavy fate, to love and be a queen!
Ay, Peredure, I know it now—too late!
Had I but hearkened to your pleading foresight!
Oh, Peredure, my brother!
[Enter Launcelot.]
Launcelot!

Launcelot.
Dear heart!

Guenevere.
Whence come you?

Launcelot.
Speakest thou so coldly?
I passed Sir Bors without and Dagonet;
They sent me hither, saying I should find
The Queen here. So, indeed, I do and not
The woman, not the eyes that met my eyes
With proud confession, not the lips that spoke
Quivering but dauntless, saying, “I love thee, Launcelot.”
O Guenevere, hast thou forgot so soon
That thou canst speak with this mechanic voice
And look on me so vacantly?

Guenevere.
Forgot?
I never shall forget.

Launcelot.
Then thou repentest.
Ay, now I see the longing in thy face
That thou hadst ne'er beheld me. Be it so.
I was a selfish monster when I thrust
My love into the forecourt of thy life. ...
And yet—you loved me once. And oh, those hours
When I could feel the warm breath from your lips
Creep o'er my cheek and mingle with my hair!
The sweet long hours whose lingering moments dripped
Like rhythmic water-drops into a pool
With silver parsimony of sweet sound
As if Time grudged each globule! Why, now I see
Tears in your eyes.

Guenevere.
O Launcelot, my king!

Launcelot.
My own true wife!

Guenevere.
Do not call back that time
With any farewell cadence in your voice!
And oh, do not reproach yourself, my god,
For opening to me those golden doors!
We lived then.

Launcelot.
There is honey on your lips
As on the Theban child's. I am the bees
That gather it—so.

Guenevere.
Launcelot!—No, no!
I had forgot. Am I, then, like the rest?
Is there so much o' the woman in my veins
That resolution, buttressed in with vows,
Cannot endure the first assault of love?
We have had a radiant dream; we have beheld
The trellises and temples of the south
And wandered in the vineyards of the sun:—
'T is morning now; the vision fades away,
And we must face the barren norland hills.

Launcelot.
And must this be?

Guenevere.
Nay, Launcelot, it is.
How shall we stand alone against the world?

Launcelot.
More lonely in it than against it! What's
The world to us?

Guenevere.
The place in which we live.
We cannot slip it from us like a garment,
For it is like the air—if we should flee
To the remotest steppes of Tartary,
Arabia or the sources of the Nile,
Or that dim region lying in the west,
Where Brandan's holy ships found anchorage,
It still is there, nor can it be eluded
Save in the airless emptiness of death.

Launcelot.
Say rather, like the miasmatic breath
Of swamps that swarm to rankness. In the clear
And unpolluted air of mountain-tops
Freedom and solitude companion. Oh,
Let the dense earth bring forth its venomous growths!
It cannot harm us on the heights.

Guenevere.
We must not
Attempt the ascent. The perils are too great
That ward the way.

Launcelot.
What reck I of the perils
Between me and the graal of my desires?

Guenevere.
To plunge the land in war! To rend the kingdom!

Launcelot.
You are worth all the kingdoms in the world.

Guenevere.
To drag our friends down with us in our fall!

Launcelot.
We shall not fall. And what is friendship worth
That will not face adversity for us?

Guenevere.
We rend the holiest bond, the family.

Launcelot.
We but destroy the false, build up the true.

Guenevere.
—Think of your childhood's home, your father's hearth,
Helen, your mother, at her household cares,
The sacred bond from which your life began,
Within whose circle boyhood grew to youth—
Knit by the gentle hand of ageless custom
And consecrate with immemorial rites.

Launcelot.
I think of this; I, too, would have a home.

Guenevere.
You have the world; the family alone
Is woman's, it alone is her protection,
Her mission and her opportunity.
In it alone she lives, and she defends it,
Even when its knife is in her heart.

Launcelot.
And I—
I, too, defend it, when it is a family,
As I would kneel before the sacred Host
When through the still aisles sounds the sacring-bell.
But if a jester strutted through the forms
And turned the holy Mass into a mock,
Would I still kneel, or would I rise in anger
And make an end of that foul mimicry?

Guenevere.
Believest thou, then, the power of the Church?
The Church would give our love an ugly name.

Launcelot.
Faith, I believe and I do not believe.
The shocks of life oft startle us to thought,
Rouse us from acquiescence and reveal
That what we took for credence was but custom.
Though the priests be the channels of God's grace,
Yet otherwise they are but men; they err
As others, may mistake for falsehood truth,
And holiness for sin.—God help me, sweet,
I cannot reason it—I only know
I love you.

Guenevere.
You are Arthur's friend. Your love—
Stands this within the honor of your friendship?

Launcelot.
Mother of God!—Have you no pity?

Guenevere.
I would
I could be pitiful and yet do right.
Alas, how heavy—your tears move me more
Than all—(What am I saying? Dare I trust
So faint a heart? I must make turning back
Impossible.)—Best know the worst! I jested—
I—God!—I do not love you. Go! 'T was all
Mockery—wanton cruelty—what you will—lechery!—
I—
[Launcelot looks at her dumbly, then slowly turns to go. As he draws aside the curtains of the doorway,—]
Launcelot!

Launcelot.
What does the Queen desire?

Guenevere.
Oh, no, I am not the Queen—I am your wife!
Take me away with you! Let me not lie
To you, of all—My whole life is a lie.
To one, at least, let it be truth. I—I—
O Launcelot, do you not understand?—
I love you—oh, I cannot let you go.

Launcelot.
I pray you do not jest a second time;
I scarce could bear it.—Yet your eyes speak true.
Tell me you speak the truth.

Guenevere.
I speak the truth.
Call me your wife!

Launcelot.
My wife, my wife, my wife!

Guenevere.
Love, I will fly with thee where'er thou wilt.

Launcelot.
Speak not of flight; I have played him false—the King,
My friend. I ne'er can wipe that smirch away
At least, I will not add a second shame
And blazon out the insult to the world.

Guenevere.
What I have given thee was ne'er another's.
How has another, then, been wronged?

Launcelot.
What's done
Is done, nor right nor wrong, as help me heaven,
Would I undo it if I could. But more
I will not do. I will not be the Brutus
To stab with mine own hand my dearest friend.
It must suffice me that you love me, sweet,
And sometime, somewhere, somehow must be mine.
I know not—it may be some dim land
Beyond the shadows, where the King himself,
Still calling me his friend, shall place your hand
In my hand, saying—“She was always thine.”

Guenevere.
I will do as thou wilt, in this and all things.
But oh, the weary days!

Launcelot.
It is enough
To know thou lovest me—sometimes, perhaps—
Oh, I am but a man!—to feel as now
Thy cheek against my own.

Guenevere.
Oh, Launcelot,
Peredure is dead.

Launcelot.
Thy brother?

Guenevere.
He is dead.

Launcelot.
I do not wonder that you were distraught.

[Shouting, etc., without.]
Guenevere.
It is the silly rabble that toss up
Their caps for Arthur. He will soon be here,—
Though a king's progress is a tedious one.
[Morgause, about to enter, perceives Launcelot and Guenevere and withdraws. A

---

153

slight stir of the curtain shows that she is listening.]
I must go to get me ready for the pageant.

Launcelot.
Be not afraid. The charge that's laid against us,
Cannot be certified by evidence.

Guenevere.
And if it were—why, then it were, and so
The burden of decision were removed.
Kiss me! Farewell, a little while, my love!
It is a woeful world, at best. Thank God
For love, even with its anguish!

[Exit, through a small door back of the thrones.]
Launcelot.
Why, then it were!
Ay, even disgrace would be an ease of breath
After this tension of duplicity.
God help me, I am like a man aghast
Between a dragon and a basilisk,
Which one he fronts dilating as he stares
More horrid than the other. O mystery
Of Fate, that folds us with encircling gloom!
What issue sleeps for us in thy dark womb?

[As he starts to go out, enter Morgause carelessly. They bow to each other. Exit Launcelot.]
Morgause.
So? Kissing at the very foot of the throne?
What impudence! ... Why, now I have the witness
Of mine own eyes to carry to the King.
What, billing like two sparrows on the highway,
Shameless of who may see? Oho, my birds!
You are in the springe. And Mistress Eyebrows, you
Shall lower a little those proud orbs of yours.
Arthur can hardly doubt his sister's word,
Especially when she is Queen of Orkney
And Rome is knocking at his gates for tribute.
But yet there's Peredure to reckon with.
Oh, had I but picked up his bloody sword
And plunged it in his heart before he fled!
But, like an infant, I must lose my wits,
To see him raging so, like a mad bull
That breaks its tether in the fields, and gores
The dull earth in its fury. Poor La Rouse!
He's out of it. He has taken a bath this time
Has frozen all the longing in his veins.
Why, I was fondling him and found it sweet—
And then, so cold, a coldness like damp earth
Or some slow-blooded fishy creature,—pah!
I was a-creep with loathing at the feel
Of that limp dummy, as I dragged it out
And dumped it in the fountain. So much, at least,
Is done to kill the scent. But Peredure?—
Will he be silent when he finds his sister
Is muddied by my hands? No, he will blurt
All out; and gossip virtue, like a hawk,
Leaving the fluttered Queen, will change its flight
And fall on the new quarry. The accusation
Cannot be held back now, even if I would.
'Tis known to the whole palace. I have sailed
Into a storm that bears me where it will,
And all my hope is to escape the reefs. ...
Devise, devise. If Peredure accuse me,
As he will surely do, I will be merry,
Jest of his love—I have it, I will say
He would himself have won me to his will
And, failing, slew La Rouse of jealousy,—
But not in my apartments. I must swear
La Rouse was not with me.—That will not do.
Curse him, they will not doubt his word. Fie, fie!
Cannot I weave a better lie than this?—
'Tis odd I have not seen the boy to-day.
What if he have gone mad—that would not be
So strange—or in a melancholy fit,
Such as he often sullens with for trifles,
Have wandered from the court? Why, there's some hope.
If he but make no entrance in the scene
That's on this morning—then let him come back!
But, Peredure, it will be to thy—Ah,
[Enter Publius.]
The ambassador!—Good morrow, Publius!

Publius.
My duty to your Majesty. All morrows
Are good when age receives the smile of beauty.

Morgause.
Or wisdom deigns to bow to witless youth.

Publius.
Your Majesty's most rancorous enemy
Would not accuse her of a lack of wit.

Morgause.
But wit and folly ever course together.
—Go to, we draw it out too thin. What think you
The King will say to Rome's demand to-day?

Publius.
He will refuse it. He is overbold.
A soldier is but a huge animal
Whose brawn the statesman turns to his own ends.

Morgause.
To underrate the foe does not augment
Our strength before, nor glory after battle.
Arthur is not a horse for you to stride,
And Merlin, though the King not always heeds him,
Is shrewder than us all.

Publius.
He will refuse,
Though fifty Merlins counsel. 'T is his pride
That thinks itself a second Julius Cæsar.
Then, with these unforeseen domestic feuds,
He must do battle with enfeebled forces.
And Britain is once more a Roman province.
Where is La Rouse to-day?

Morgause.
I have not seen him.

Publius.
Strange! He was to communicate with me
At daybreak.

Morgause.
The Empire's system of espionage
Is very perfect, is it not?

Publius.
Your Majesty,
It is my charge; I cannot praise myself.

Morgause.
I fancy, were some enemy of Rome,
Some dangerous enemy, in a foreign court,
Some man who knew too much, we'll say—you could
Remove him, I presume, with little trouble.

Publius.
Were such a man in Camelot, he were dead
Before the day were.—She has some one in mind.
No matter; Rome can spend a dram of hemlock
For such allies.

Morgause.
So soon as that, indeed!
I see 't is well to keep in Roman favor.—
Then look to it that the Prince of Cameliard
Never appears again before the King.
'T is well for Rome, I tell you. We have used him
And now he is incensed. He has not been
About the court to-day.

Publius.
If he appear
Too quickly, he shall perish by the knife;
Else, lest we wake suspicion, he must die
A natural death.

Morgause.
St! Finger on the lips!

[Enter Merlin.]
Publius.
Is the King near?

Merlin.
He even now dismounts.

Publius.
I must withdraw and seek my fellow-legates.
Madam, I humbly take my leave,— [apart rapidly]
I give
The order at once— [to Merlin]
and of you, sir, most humbly.

[Exit.]
Merlin.
I am well pleased to find the Queen of Orkney
Does not forget her brother's interests,
But even spreads her fascinating snares
About the feet of senile enemies.

Morgause.
Would all of Arthur's blood were but as true!
Merlin, I fear my sister, Fay Morgana,
Will set her husband and the King at odds,
If Rome should war upon us.

Merlin.
Fay Morgana
Would say, “My sister is not overwise;
She is so shrewd she ceases to be shrewd.”

Morgause.
I know my learned sister is your pupil;
I never thought to match with her in craft.

Merlin.
Craft is no craft, when craftier is at play;
Craft and no craft—and that is all I say.
A woman's wit is subtle but unsure.

Morgause.
Why do you juggle with a senseless rhyme?

Merlin.
So that your wits may have a tree to climb.

[Flourish without.]
Morgause.
At last, the King!

[Enter Arthur, Guenevere, Launcelot, Godmar, Galahault, Kaye, Bors, Lionel, Ector, Gawaine, Lionors, Dagonet, Knights, Ladies, Heralds and Attendants. Flourish. The King and Queen ascend their thrones.

---

161

Merlin takes the raised seat next the King. Kaye stands at the foot of the throne, attended by two Heralds.]
Arthur.
Fair dames and damsels, greeting!
My lords and gentlemen, most noble knights
Of the Round Table, greeting to you all!
With wassail and rejoicing we return;
For victory, like the reflected sun,
Sits flashing on our helmets. Cornwall now
Acknowledges our suzerainty and holds
His crown in feoff. This rings the curtain down
Upon the first act of our purposes.
Our Trojan race, enfeebled by dependence
So long upon the strong protecting swords
Of Rome, our cousin and erstwhile our conqueror,
And, that stout panoply and bond withdrawn,
Cleft into princedoms and conflicting states,
Lay, when I found it, helpless in its chaos
To make a head against the Saxon raids
Or to cast off the yoke of Roman tribute.
Nor needed there a foreign foe; for when
Each realm within the realm would be supreme,
What hinders that each lordship do the like,
Each barony, each village, each strong arm?
Why, such a land is like a rotting corpse;
For when that harmony and principle
Of union, which is life, is ta'en away,
And each corporeal atom works alone,
The issue is corruption. The great world
Should have one lord, as Britain has at last;
There lies the true goal of all polity.
But we, at least, are one; nor only Britain
But many parts of France accept our sway.
'T is fit, at such a joyous consummation,
Wrought with such toil of statecraft and of arms,
To deck our city like a Queen of May
With many-colored flags and summer garlands,
And make the midnight sky to mock the dawn
With the red gleam of bonfires on the hills.
[Sits. Murmurs of applause.]
What matters in our absence have arisen
That need the scrutiny of the King? Proceed.

[The heralds sound.]
Kaye.
First, dread my lord, the ambassadors from Rome.

Arthur.
Let them appear.

[Flourish. Enter Publius and nine other Ambassadors, old men, bearing each a branch of olive. They kneel before the throne.]
Publius.
First for ourselves we do
This reverence to your Majesty, entreating
Lest we lose favor in your eyes, in that
We do a graceless office. We are but cogs
In the machinery of imperial Rome
And work our master's will.

Arthur.
Rise, gentlemen,
And let the throne of Britain know your message.

Publius
[reads].
“Lucius, the high and mighty Emperor,
Sendeth to Arthur, King of Britain, greeting,
Commanding thee that thou acknowledge him
Thy lord, and that thou send the truage due
Unto the Empire, which thy father paid
And other heretofore thy predecessors,
As is of record. Thou, as a false rebel,
Not knowing him to be thy sovereign,
Withholdest and retainest this just impost,
Contrary to the statutes and decrees,
Made by the noble and worthy Julius Cæsar,
Conqueror of this realm and of the world,
First Emperor of Rome. If thou refuse,
Know thou for certain he shall make strong war
On thee, thy realms and lands, and shall chastise
Thee and thy subjects, making an ensample
Perpetual unto all kings and princes
Not to rebel against that noble empire
Which domineth the universal world.”

A Young Knight.
Gentlemen, shall this graybeard insolence
Scoff in our teeth?

[Several of the younger knights draw their swords.]
Arthur.
Put up your swords. He dies,
Who touches these old men except with reverence.
Fie, would ye strike the herald in his office
Or run upon unweaponed age?—Go, tell
Your lord, there was a king of Britain once
Who sacked great Rome itself, despite the geese
Cackled to save it. As for this demand,
I know no tribute that I owe to him,
Nor to no earthly prince, Christian nor heathen.
Say furthermore that I myself pretend
In virtue of my lineal descent
From that great Constantine who saw the Cross
Blazoned upon the sky for his device,
And conquered in that sign, who was himself
A Briton, son of Helena, our Queen,
And sprung from immemorial royalty—
From him, I say, I trace my high descent,
From him I hold the sovereignty of Britain
And from him, too, the Iron Crown of Rome.
And I proclaim that Lucius wears that crown
As an usurper and a rebel, and
Demand that he and all that are of Rome
Hasten incontinent to do me homage
As their true Emperor, on pain of all
That shall ensue. For, rest you well assured,
If I invade Italia with my chivalry,
The legioned arms of Rome shall stead you little.
This is my answer. But do not for this
Yourselves be too impetuous of return.
Abide some days in Camelot, my lords;
We shall afford you merry entertainment.

Publius.
Your declaration puts the world at war;
We may not dally in a hostile court.

[Exit, with Ambassadors.]
Kaye
[apart].
My lord, I would have warned you of the next;
But I could get no audience in the press.
[Aloud, reading.]
“Sir Ladinas de la Rouse, a lord of France,
And Knight of the Round Table, doth impeach
Guenevere, Queen of Britain, Sovran Lady
Of the most Knightly and Christian Fellowship
Of the Round Table, et cetera, of treason
To the most gracious person of the King
And to the safety of the realm, in living
In shameless license with Sir Launcelot.
Also he doth impeach for the same cause
Sir Launcelot du Lac, the son of Ban,
Lord of the land of Benwick and the castle
Of Joyous Gard. This charge he undertakes
To prove by evidence irrefragable,
Or else to meet Sir Launcelot in the lists
And whatsoever Knight beside appear
To champion the quarrel of the Queen.
In pledge whereof he offers to the King
The disposition of his life and lands.”

[Profound silence.]
Launcelot.
This is a grievous charge to make. But why
Comes not the knight according to his bond,
That I may prove his lie upon his head?

Morgause.
Because he has been treacherously murdered—
Therefore he comes not, thou dishonored knight!

Kaye.
Murdered?

Morgause.
Ay, murdered—by Prince Peredure,
The brother of the Queen! A strange concurrence!

Merlin.
How comes it, lady, that you know so much?
Did Dagonet tell you or Sir Bors? They only,
Except myself, have known of this. Be careful;
With too much knowledge you undo yourself.

Arthur.
Enough! 'T is well, perhaps, that he is dead;
Else this preposterous charge might not be passed
Unquestioned and unpunished.—Is aught else—?

Morgause.
Oh, not so fast, my royal brother! La Rouse
Cannot break through his coffin to sustain
His righteous accusation; but I take
That burden on myself. I shall demand
Bors de Ganys, the Lady Lionors
—You should believe her, she was never false
To you—Prince Galahault, who knows full well
What he is loth to answer, Lynette, Laurel,
Dagonet, some others after, to bear witness.
It is the common rumor of the palace.
You cannot honorably, with that respect
You owe the knights and ladies of your court,
Allow yourself so shamelessly to be
Misused and made a jest of. I myself
Have seen Sir Launcelot and the Queen together
When they conceited they were unperceived.
It was but now I—

Arthur.
Silence! One word more
And, royal and our sister though you be,
Your womanhood shall be your shield no longer.
Too much already have we suffered you
To play the spy and weave your deft intrigues
About our footing. Now our slackness ends.
We banish you the court. Go, get you ready!
Sir Kaye will see that, ere the sun is set,
You are far hence in some sequestered castle,
Where you shall have all honor, ceremony,
And revenues appropriate to your state,—
But nevermore be seen at Camelot!

Morgause.
Why, be a fool, then, and a wittol, do!
And while you play the rogue in others' couches,
—As you are celebrated for that sport,—
Your dearest friend shall get the realm its heir.
God punishes your wantonness right fitly,
You prince of lechers and of perjurers!
You, flower of chivalry! Ay, for chivalry
Means truth to men, if they are stout enough,
And flattering falsehood to a woman's ear.
Murder and lust are the two spurs of knighthood,
Which stains a Lionors and stabs La Rouse!
—Proud harlot, I shall see your downfall yet.

[Exit, followed by Kaye.]
Arthur.
My Launcelot, sit thou by my Queen. My lords,
This is my friend—through good or ill report
My friend. Who injures him by word or deed,
Were it but the thin film of an idle breath
Clouding the clear glass of his stainless soul,
He injures me; and but that I am King
And may not, being the State more than myself,
Joust like a simple knight, and but that he,
Our stoutest arm as our most knightly heart,
Needs not my lance to right him, I would slay
With mine own hands the knave that did him wrong.
[Turns to Guenevere, who rises.]
And thou, my noble Queen!—If that I ever
By so much as the sullying of a thought
Dimmed the bright clarity of thine imaged whiteness
Within my soul, may Christ remember it
Against me at the Judgment!
[Advances and kisses her, then turns to the others.]
Good my lords,
Erase this most unnecessary scene
From your remembrance.

Launcelot
[half aside, partly to Guenevere and partly to himself].
Be less kingly, Arthur,
Or you will split my heart!—not with remorse—
No, not remorse, only eternal pain!—
Why, so the damned are!

Guenevere
[half apart].
To the souls in hell
It is at least permitted to cry out.

Curtain.

3. III. THE BIRTH OF GALAHAD

A ROMANTIC DRAMA

PERSONS.

• Arthur, King of Britain.
• Launcelot, his General.
• Galahault, his General.
• Ector De Maris, younger brother of Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
• Lionel, cousin to Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
• Bors De Ganys, younger brother of Lionel, Knight of the Round Table.
• Dinadan, friend of Tristram of Lyonesse, Knight of the Round Table.
• Merlin.
• Dagonet, the Queen's Fool.
• Galahad, a new-born child.
• Lucius, Emperor of Rome.
• Bursa, a Prefect, Roman Courtier.
• Publius, a Senator, Roman Courtier.
• Voconius, a Poet, Roman Courtier.
• Varro, a Roman Captain.
• Linus, his Lieutenant.
• The Pope.
• Guenevere, Queen of Britain.
• Ylen, daughter of King Pelles.
• Dame Brisen, a retainer of Princess Ylen.
• Metella, favorite of the Emperor, niece of Publius.
• Voconia, sister of Voconius.
• Messengers, Knights, Soldiers, Senators, Ladies, Courtiers, Monks, Players, Dancers, Slaves, and Attendants.

ACT I.

Scene I.

A Garden in Lyonesse. Beds of the earlier vegetables, such as lettuce, cabbages, young onions, and radishes, mingled with primroses and daffodils, and other early flowers. Some of the beds covered with straw, which Dame Brisen and Dagonet are busy removing, to expose them to the warmth of the sunny spring morning. The garden walks lead back to a doorway in a small castle, where a plum-tree in full blossom is trained against the castle walls. In another part, a shrine, with an image of the Virgin. The garden is encompassed by a wall, parts of which are in view; and through a gate in this wall the ocean is seen in the distance. On the other side of the gate from the castle, a turret with a spiral stair is built against the wall, overtopping it and looking on the sea.
Dame Brisen
(crooning).
Old and bent and a bag of bones!
Kisses for maidens, kicks for crones!
But never so bonny and brisk a bride
In the dark of the moon when the demons ride!

Dagonet.

“Demons” and “the dark of the moon”—Oh, Lord! Let 's think of something cheerful. (Sings.)

The King sat down to a venison pasty,
Burned his mouth because he was hasty—
[Breaks off and looks at Dame Brisen quissically.]

Dame Brisen
(crooning).
Mandrake and martagan!
A goodly brew
For the—

[The rest is lost in a mutter.]
Dagonet.

Ugh! Who would think she was but gathering herbs for a pottage? ... Dame Brisen, the country folk say you are a witch.

Dame Brisen.

Witch enough to bewilder them, Dagonet. Gather you your strawberries, and meddle not with an old woman's whims. Weed the patch as you go.

Dagonet.

That ever I should come to be a puller of weeds!

Dame Brisen.

You are wrong to say so. Would you have a common kern here, to be a partaker of the Queen's secret?

[Dagonet drops his basket, springs lightly up into the turret, glances rapidly over the wall, and up and down the road, and lightly leaps back into the garden.]
Dagonet.

The Queen has no secret,—with a wall

but a rod away, and whoever you please passing behind it.

Dame Brisen.

Well, well.

Dagonet.

Besides, if we keep up the trick to each other, we shall lie with the better grace to the world. We shall have no superfluous habit of the truth to forget. So let it be your lady, the Princess Ylen, even between us, and no word of secrets or the Queen! Old Merlin has a nose like an elephant, and can smell a thought from here to Camelot, before you have spoken it.

Dame Brisen.

Nay, you can tell me naught of Merlin. In the old days—But the sap 's out o' that long ago ...

Dagonet.

When will the child be born?

Dame Brisen.

Under the next moon.

Dagonet.

And when did the Princess' husband die? When a man is to have a posthumous heir, he can't be too careful of the date of his death.

Dame Brisen.

It was nigh on Michaelmas of last year the Prince died.

Dagonet
(counting on his fingers).

Oh, that I had given myself in my youth to the mathematics!

Dame Brisen.

Tangle your brains no more about it. The child will pass for his ... I cannot keep from thinking of the Queen and the Princess in their childhood. You remember them.

Dagonet.

As well as I remember my first top. I spun it and they spun me. ... Oh, the Virgin!

Dame Brisen.

What now?

Dagonet.

I have put all the weeds into the basket with the strawberries. God never meant me to be a clodhopper.

[Runs up again into the turret, where he sits twirling his bauble, and looking out idly over the wall.]
Dame Brisen.

I saw them both born. They are within three months of an age. The kingdoms of their fathers lay side by side; that was before King Arthur had made all the kingdoms into one. There were Druids still in the fastnesses in those days.

Dagonet.

Yonder 's a horseman far down the road. He rides too fast for a clown.

Dame Brisen.

By the mistletoe, but they were a pair of madcap little queenlets! Untamed as young hawks—

Dagonet.

And inseparable as bread and butter.

Dame Brisen.

When the lady Guenevere was not at the court of our good King Pelles, then was the lady Ylen with your mistress at Cameliard. They would have it no other way. And it was ever Guenevere that led in the adventure, and it was ever Ylen that led in the escape.

Enter Ylen. She stands for an instant in the doorway, and then comes slowly down the walks, plucking primroses. She pays no heed to the others, and they do not perceive her.
Dagonet.

Yonder horseman wears the King's livery; perhaps he brings news from the armies.

Dame Brisen.

Nay, but that would gladden the heart of Guenevere. Day long she frets for tidings of the war.

Dagonet.

Not the war so much as the warrior.

Dame Brisen.

Since the King crossed the waters with his knights, you would say the sea rolled between her and her peace.

Dagonet.

He'll never keep up that pace when he gets to the foot of the hill. I'll down to meet him.

[Leaps over the wall and disappears.]
Dame Brisen.

And leave me to finish your work for you, vagabond.

[As she rises and turns, with her basket in one hand and Dagonet's in the other, she meets Ylen.]

Good morrow, my lady.

Ylen.
Good morrow, Brisen. What a day of spring!
The wind comes with a touch so like a kiss
I almost blush and startle; and the knit sense
Opens like a flower in the warm air.
Go call the Queen; this will revive her more
Than all the service of a score of us.

Dame Brisen.
Ay, madam, she stifles, shut indoor.

Ylen.
What chiefly
Lays waste her spirit is the barren longing
To look on Launcelot. But to hear his name,
She will hang upon your words like a great bee.
She swears, when all is done, she will not stay
One hour ere she set out to join him.

Dame Brisen.
Well,
She has not so long to wait as she has waited.

Ylen.
[Exit Dame Brisen. Ylen wanders about the garden idly, singing.]
[Pauses with her face against the gate, looking out over the sea.]

Enter Guenevere, from the castle. A pause.
Guenevere.
My heart is with the sailors on that bark,
Far out to sea, whose sails shine like a star,
Bound for the south—oh, to be free! to stab
This turnkey Policy, break prison, flee,
Untrammelled, fearless, irresponsible—
And let tongues wag that will!

Ylen.
The place is pleasant.
Since needs must we be prisoners, methinks
Our jail no hardship.

Guenevere.
Oh, were Launcelot here,
I could content me, were 't a hermitage,
And think myself the mistress of a world.

Ylen.
And I, whose lord and lover bivouacs
By camp-fires whence no tidings ever come,
With the unreturning armies of the dead,
What bird of all the heaven could lend me wings
Would serve me? So I grow content, perhaps,
With all too little, seeing that what I would
Is more than mortal can.

Guenevere.
Forgive me!
My loss is loud and fretful, and forgets
Your deeper, dumb, irrevocable grief.
You are my savior: you have all been kind,
Gentle and true, Sir Tristram when he lent
This bower to us, and your Brisen, too,
And Dagonet—a good world, after all,
That has such hearts in it! Oh, Ylen, Ylen!
I think there never was so good a woman—

Ylen
(sings).
“We two have wandered on the hills
And braved the winds together.”
Oh, dear my Guenevere, is it so much
That we should just be friends? And what's a friend
That does not feel a joy that friendship needs
The will made deed to lean on?

Guenevere.
Such a friend
Is oftener dreamed than real.

Ylen.
Nor is this
So hard a thing I do. For, sooth, I need
Something to love—nay, were it but a bird.
My lord is not; you grow away from me
In the great world I have no heart to enter;
My father dreams of Graals and mystic visions,
And nears the end. I never had a child.
And I begin to long for yours as if
I were indeed its mother.

Guenevere.
Ah, but ...
You do not know the mystery of it all;
A life within your life—a part of you
And yet not you—a soul—think, Ylen, think—
A soul, a spark struck from divinity,
And caught in you as tow to smoulder in
Until the free air fan it to a flame—
Shut, as the Host is in the tabernacle,
Within you—Oh, it makes a sanctuary
Of every inch of you, a temple where
The soul is priest and may not leave the altar
One instant! The whole earth is hushed and chancelled.
Out of the shadow of the brooding presence
No escape anywhere—ocean, sky, air, filled
With the universal awe. I live in awe.
I am become a wonder to myself,
A place inhabited by secret powers,
A wilderness wherein I wander, lost,
Among dim, alien shapes, forgotten gods,
That work out their uncomprehended aims
And ask no leave of me.

Dagonet
(without).
Ho, there! News!

Guenevere.
What now?

Ylen.
It is the fool.

Enter Dagonet and a Messenger.
Dagonet.

A messenger from the Court, your Majesty.

Guenevere.

What news?

Dagonet.

A caskful at the least. Broach, broach! We are all dry as Saracens. I could drink the stalest small beer of court gossip with a relish. A mad jest would be sack to me. Any old news! We that live in the country—

Guenevere.
Peace, Fool; it is his cue.

Messenger.
First, madam, Merlin
Greets you with health and loyal salutation.
Bidding you have no care of things of state,
Seeing the matters of your regency,
Whereof he is the minister, continue
Smoothly and fair. What else imports you know
With more detail, you may at your good leisure
O'erread in these. [Giving packet.]


Guenevere.
No tidings of the wars?

Messenger.
A post from France brings word the King has met
The Romans at the Loire and vanquished them;
The happy issue of the day being due
Chiefly to Launcelot.

Guenevere.
Ay, what of him?

Messenger.
He was the first knight in the world before,
But now he hath no rival. Madam, a poet
Should tell his deeds, not I, who have no language
To parallel his action. His appearance
Made the ranks break before him; they that stayed,
Like stubborn oaks, were blasted with the shock
Of his great battle-axe, which played like lightning,
Here, there, now at the centre, now the flanks,
Cracking the cloud of war.

Guenevere.
Methinks I see him!—

Ylen.
Madam, be calm ... What of the others?

Messenger.
Alas!
Sir Godmar, the Lord Marshal, that old soldier,
Who hath commanded since King Uther's time,
Is slain. At that the field was almost lost,
And had been, but for Launcelot, whose coming
Made them whose courage failed at Godmar's fall
Take heart again and conquer. Save for this,
No loss of note except Sir Dinadan
Who is made prisoner.

Ylen.
What, Dinadan?
The merry Dinadan? A sorry jest.

Messenger.
The Romans have retreated to the Rhone,
Whither our armies follow. For his prowess
The King has named Sir Launcelot general
In Godmar's place.

Guenevere.
Why, then, he has command
Of all the armies!

Messenger.
Ay, madam, next the King.

Ylen.

You bring good news. But we forget your journey. Dagonet, look you to his entertainment.

Dagonet.

Now it's my turn ... Shall we go in? ... What's the last mad prank on the Severn? Who has made Sir Kaye ridiculous? Or no, God made him that. Which of the maids of honor—now the cat 's away the—

Messenger.
One more commission. Merlin prays the Queen
To read this scroll.

[Bows and exit with Dagonet.]
Guenevere.
Oh! ...
Fate waits upon his will. No enterprise
So hopeless, be it in peace or be it in war,
But his adhesion sureties its success!

Ylen.
Holá! Holá!

Guenevere.
But to be fellows with him
Makes lesser men invincible.

Ylen.
How Tristram
Will chafe that he must rest inglorious here
While such brave deeds are doing!

Guenevere.
Launcelot
Holds him his only peer; but the heavens fight
With Launcelot!

Ylen.
And to Tristram they are dark;
As now when he must stay and serve King Mark.

Guenevere.
The more is Launcelot's glory that alone
He is sufficient. Oh, it is strange
That one, the gentlest heart in all the world,
Should be so mighty and so terrible.

Ylen.
What is more gentle than the delicate air?
And yet its storms uproot the rugged oak.
And what is softer than the yielding wave?
Yet floods and tempests lurk there. What more kindly
Than the warm fire, which, being unleashed, devours
A city or a forest in a night? ...
I pray you, read the scroll that Merlin sent.
I am curious.

Guenevere.
What mystery is this?
A riddle—for the harp.

Ylen.
Nay, read it out.

Guenevere
(reads).

Ylen.
How can he know?

Guenevere.
He knows, he knows.

Ylen.
Nay, perhaps he but spreads a snare for you.

Guenevere.
He has strange power to see men's hidden souls.
His look can make your thoughts startle and shrink
Like naked things.

Ylen.
Let me look at the scroll ...
It's partly pat and partly in the air;
Words, words; or I am dull.

Guenevere.
No, no; he clouds
His meaning in a mystery. That's his way ...
The worst is, to do nothing ... What he knows
He knows. What he will do, he will do. And there's
No help but silence and to wait the event.

[The scene closes.

Scene II.

In the Valley of the Rhone. The Camp. Before the Tent of Launcelot. Lionel and Ector, playing at dice, Bors, and Varro, a prisoner.
Ector.
I'll play no more. The Devil is on your side.

Lionel.
As you will, cousin. ... Will you lay a wager, sir?

Varro.
You mock me. I am a prisoner, disfurnished
Of aught to play with, and, till I am ransomed,
Cut off from my estate.

Lionel.
O sir, your word
Is good enough for me to gamble with.

Bors.
Think not so meanly of us, as that we
Should jest at a brave foeman overthrown.
We would forget you are our prisoner
And have you too forget it.

Lionel.
If you lose,
I'll rest your creditor till you are free.

Varro.
Why then I take your offer heartily;
And, win or lose, I am your debtor still
For courtesy. ... A hundred sesterces!

Lionel.
Deuces.

Varro.
Eleven.

Lionel.
Yours.

Varro.
Again. ... the same.

Lionel.
Quits.

Varro.
Double.

Lionel.
Mine.

Varro.
Three hundred.

Lionel.
Mine again.

Varro.
A thousand sesterces against your chestnut!

Lionel.
That's twice her value. Done.

Varro.
A double six.

Lionel.
The mare is yours.

Ector.
Look! By the Holy Cross,
There 's Dinadan.

Bors.
Where?

Ector.
Yonder, with Launcelot.

Lionel.
What, Dinadan back again? Ho, Dinadan!

Enter Launcelot and Dinadan.
Ector.
How 'scaped you?

Bors.
Welcome to the camp again!

Dinadan.
Oh, comrades!

Varro.
What a fellowship these knights are!

Dinadan.
O Lord, O Lord! I am bruised from head to foot.
First, I am sore with sleeping in the prison—
They have villainous prisons in these Roman towns—
Next, sore with riding the jade that brought me hither—
She had a backbone like the Alps—and last,
Sorest of all with the crack you have given my ribs.

Bors.
Why, welcome, then!

Dinadan.
Oh, Bors, be pitiful!

Launcelot.
Varro, I have found you a true man, and I
Am glad and loth to set you free. But go;
You are the ransom of Sir Dinadan;
I have exchanged you for him. They that brought him
Wait to conduct you back with them. Good bye!

Lionel.
What, free so soon? Come, we must find your mare.

Ector.
I'll go along with you.

Varro.
Sir Launcelot,
If e'er my arm can do you service, saving
My loyalty to Cæsar ... count on me.

Launcelot.
I do believe you. I do know your worth.

Varro.
I thank you all. Farewell. Sir Lionel,
I owe you some five hundred sesterces.
Will you be patient till I send them to you,
Or will you take the mare again in payment?

Lionel.
No, keep the brute, that you may not forget us;
And I'll collect the sesterces in Rome.

Varro.
It will be long before your armies sit
Beneath the walls of Rome. But thanks again.
I shall not soon forget you. By the gods,
Were Rome and Britain not at war, I 'd hold
No honor half so dear as to be one
Of your great fellowship—this same Round Table
You tell me of. By Hercules, you are men.
Farewell!

[Exeunt Varro, Lionel, and Ector.
Bors.
A valiant pagan, with a touch
Of the old Roman virtue in him yet.
I hold him nearer heaven, with his plain honesty,
Than all the Christian Romans I have seen.

Dinadan.
Pagan or Christian, hang 'em all, I say.
I would not treat a pig as they did me.

Bors.
There still are not a few among the Romans
Who, like our Varro, hold to the antique gods,
But they resemble him in nothing else.
The rest are Christians more by politics
Than faith and living; and, for the most part now,
To be a Roman is to be made up
Of falsehood, idleness and incontinence.

Dinadan.
Treachery and lechery stirred about together
Like a bad pudding.

Enter Galahault.
Galahault.
What, Sir Dinadan!

Dinadan.
At your commands, Sir Galahault, I pray you,
Assign me a post of danger in the rear.
I have a great desire to lead an attack
On the commissariat.

Galahault.
Why, so you shall.
For that you 're captain.

Bors.
We'll take leave of you.
We were just going to my tent.

Galahault.
I take it
Sir Dinadan needs rest. I'll not detain you.

Bors.
The generals would confer together. Come.

[Exeunt Bors and Dinadan.]
Galahault.
It nears the hour the King appointed us
To hold our council. Shall we go together?

Launcelot.
The daily torture! ...
To hear his voice! To look into his eyes ...
His honest, outward eyes ... and read the love there
I have betrayed! ... Oh, Galahault, you know,
You know, you know; and you must hear me speak—
Or I must find a desert and rip out
My passion to the winds.

Galahault.
Had I been silent,
Love would have found a way. I did not count.
And yet so little as I counted, Launcelot,
I reckon it as one of my good deeds.

Launcelot.
I will not yield her. No, by heaven, she 's mine,
And by a higher title than the King's.
I cannot yield her; she 's not mine to yield.
Love is not goods or gold to be passed on
From hand to hand; it is like life itself,
One with its owner,—pluck it out to give
Another and by that act it is destroyed
And no one richer for your bankruptcy.
Yet if we do no wrong, what 's there to hide,
And why must we shift out our lives in lies?
When Arthur puts his arm about my neck
And tells me his imperial dreams, how he
Will shape this world, when he has mastered it,
To something worthier man's immortal soul,
Keeping back nothing of his heart from me—
Oh, Galahault, think how I love the man
And how my heart must choke with its deceit!
It were less miserable to confess to him—
But that were tenfold more disloyalty
To Guenevere than loyalty to him.
Disloyalty! Oh, God, were I to break
My promise to a slave, I 'd hold myself
A paltry and dishonored thing; and yet
Whichever way I turn, disloyalty
Yawns like a chasm before me. True is false,
And false is true; and everything that is,
A mocking contradiction of itself.
I am lost in lies, and must lie on—to him! ...
At least I'll serve him in his dream of empire—
There lies his heart. I have fought in this campaign
Triple myself! There is no peace for me
But to achieve impossibilities—
Then, all 's too little.

Galahault.
Would I had the tithe
Of such a passion! So are great deeds done.
To have the power to feel go out of you,
That is the worst. I have a workman's pleasure
In my own skill, 't is true; but all 's for what?
I have no reason to do anything;
Would die, but have no reason for that, neither.
You love the Queen, too—What a reason 's there!

Launcelot.
Would suffer hell to love her, as indeed
I suffer hell—but love her! I am content.
I have chosen. ... We must go. I must endure
To look into the eyes of my best friend
And live a lie to him. ... God, to be in Rome!
To set the Cæsars' crown upon his head!
To make it up to him! ... Well, come.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.

The same as Scene I. The spring is more advanced, and the later flowers, lilies especially, have appeared. Some lilies are set in a vase before the shrine of the Virgin. Dagonet is arranging a couch in the garden. Enter Dame Brisen with her arms full of cushions and coverings.
Dame Brisen.

I have been midwife these two and forty years, but never yet saw I woman out of her bed, not to say out of doors, the third day after the child was born. It is against all precedent. But she is that stubborn, you might as well argue with Tintagel.

Dagonet.

Fast asleep. How antique he looks for only two days old!

Dame Brisen.

Ay, this is the third day. He was born on Easter Sunday, of all days in the world. Have you spoken to the fathers at the Abbey concerning his christening? 'T is for to-day.

Dagonet.

Yes, yes. They have gone forth in procession to bless the fields. When they return, at vespers, you 're expected. The abbey will furnish

proxies for the sponsors. This seems to be all done by proxy. I wonder the youngster did not appear by attorney himself.

Dame Brisen.

To take the air in the garden! Is she wiser than all the women since Eve? I wash my hands of the consequences.

Dagonet.

Now, to look at the two of us, who would think that this was a monster of iniquity, not yet washed from his sins, and I one of the saints, clean as a fresh laundered shirt, absolved o' Saturday, communicated o' Sunday, and not having had a chance to commit any sins since?

Dame Brisen.

There, the couch is ready. Mass, I'll not have my fine frock on in time for the christening.

[Going.]
Enter Ylen and Guenevere.
Guenevere
(comes down from the castle with Ylen, and sinks on the couch).
... Oh, why should we bring forth
Children in weakness, not in strength? Why not
Be free and mighty, bearing mighty men,
Yielding our increase as the teeming Earth
That faints not—nay, rather exults and splurges
In her fecundity?

Ylen.
Well, by St. Anne,
Was never woman had less cause than thou
To rail against the curse.

Guenevere.
I am not bedrid;
But yet I am too trammelled for my will,
Which would be in the clouds with yonder hawk
And swoop to its desire.

Dame Brisen.
Madam, what name
Will you have given the child?

Guenevere.
Bring him to me.

Dame Brisen.
He is asleep; I would not wake him, madam,
Until it rings for vespers.

Guenevere.
Let me turn, then,
So I can see him. ... “Wrapped in swaddling clothes.” ...
He shall be christened Galahad.

Dame Brisen.
A fair name.

Ylen.
Why do you choose it?

Guenevere.
I would have him like
His father, even in name. Did you not know
That Launcelot was first named Galahad?

Ylen.
No, sooth.

Guenevere.
Yes, he was christened so; and after
Confirmed and knighted Launcelot of the Lake.

Ylen.
Go, get you ready, Brisen. ... Galahad!

[Exit Dame Brisen.]
Guenevere.
Dagonet, you must post from hence to-night,—
And be you swifter than the hunted fox!
I will not give you letters. Be your memory
My parchment. When you come to Launcelot,
Say I am coming—Were my wish my coach,
I should be there before you. But I fear
I shall not speed it with a courier.
Therefore, I send you first; for every day
That he is ignorant, is a day forgotten.
I would my thoughts were arrows to outspeed
The swallow to him! ... Tell him, he has a son.
—My lips are jealous of the word. Oh, how
Can I let any but myself declare
The wonder to him? ... Fetch me ink and paper.
I will write. You shall bear a letter to him.

Dagonet
(going).

If I had the heels of your will, it would be a quick journey. [Sings.]

[Exit.]
Ylen.
Look where the slow procession of the monks
Crawls through the fields.

Guenevere.
It lies along the downs,
Like a long line of seaweed on the surge.

Ylen.
They are turning homeward.

Guenevere.
Now I look at them,
I almost fancy I can hear their chanting.

Ylen.
That 's a sharp ear.

Guenevere.
Nay, surely I can hear them.

Re-enter Dagonet, with pens, ink, and paper, which he arranges by Guenevere's side on a table.
Monks
(chanting, far off, very faintly).

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper * et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.

Guenevere.
I will not write ... Tell him ... tell him ... Now what
Can he be told by any messenger?
Be letter perfect and there 's something gone
That was the real message. ... I will write.

[Writes.]
Monks
(without, nearer).

... exitus matutini et vespere delectabis.

Visitasti terram, et inebriasti eam * multiplicasti locupletare eam.

Flumen Dei repletum est aquis, parasti cibum illorum * quoniam ita est præparatio ejus.

Rivos ejus inebria, multiplica genimina ejus * in stillicidiis ejus lætabitur germinans.

Benedices coronæ anni benignitatis tuæ * et campi tui replebuntur ubertate.

Pinguescent speciosa deserti * et exultatione colles accingentur.

Induti sunt arietes ovium, et valles abundabunt frumento * clamabunt, etenim hymnum dicent.

Gloria Patri, et Filio * et Spiritui Sancto;

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper * et in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.

[With the Gloria the procession of monks begins to come in sight. First, one with a banner bearing the device of a lion; next, one with a banner bearing the device of a dragon; then follow the lay brothers, in the brown habits of the order; then the priests, who wear surplices over their

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27

cowls; lastly, the abbot, in cope and mitre, preceded by an acolyte carrying a cross. As the first monk, with the banner of the lion, passes, Guenevere, having written her letter and sealed it, turns to Dagonet, who is looking at the monks. Ylen sits with Guenevere on the couch, and the three watch the procession silently, until it has passed.]

Domini est terra, et plenitudo ejus * orbis terrarum, et universi qui habitant in eo.

Quia ipse super maria fundavit eum * et super flumina præparavit eum.

Quis ascendet in montem Domini * aut quis stabit in loco sancto ejus?

Innocens manibus, et mundo corde * qui non accepit in [The procession passes out of sight.]
vano animam suam, nec juravit in dolo proximo suo.

Hic accipiet benedictionem a Domino ...

Guenevere.

Here is the letter. Guard it with thy life.

Dagonet
(Taking letter).

Better yet, with my wits, and with my heels. I will go in and furnish myself for the journey. Fare you well, madam. Fare you well, my liege. Now to see the world.

[Exit.]
Enter Dame Brisen, hurriedly.
Dame Brisen.

It is nigh on the hour. I shall be late. The fathers are already—... [She is about to take up the child in her arms, and suddenly breaks off speaking. The others, startled, look up, and, following

her gaze, perceive Merlin standing in the gate. Guenevere rises, but Ylen remains seated on the couch.]

Monks
(without, in the distance).

Quis est iste Rex gloriæ? * Dominus virtutum ipse est Rex gloriæ.

Enter Merlin.
Ylen.
You are welcome, Merlin. That I do not rise,
My sickness must excuse. Will you go in?
Or shall our Brisen bring us cakes and wine
Here in the garden?

Merlin.
Madam, bravely played.
But you, O Queen, why do you rise and stand
Alert, with quivering nostril? Sit you down,
And have no fear of me.

Guenevere.
I fear you not.

Merlin.
The labor to play out your comedy
Is much ado for nothing. I'll be plain.
(To Ylen.)
You, who are childless, must not seem to be;
(To Guenevere.)
And you, who are not childless, must be thought so.
And so your riddle is reed. Now drop your masks.
Why feign deceit, since I am not deceived?

Guenevere.
Nay, then, you know. (Sinking on couch.)
God knows I love not masks.
It is a bitter thing to lie—to hide
As if you were ashamed of what you lived!
I tell thee, Merlin, I am proud of it,—
Proud of my love, proud of my lover, proud—
Ay, prouder of my child than of my crown!
I would I could go out into the streets
And show him with a boast. I would the world
Might know how much to envy is my joy!
And I must lie—like some poor penny thief
That thinks to 'scape a flogging; I must lie,
Like a base mind that dares not let its thoughts
Out-doors, lest it be seen how vile they are.
It doth unburden me to speak at last
And not degrade myself. You know the truth.
What will you do? I must know what's to be—
The worst!—or best. ... And yet I do not know
What I hold worst or best. ... What will you do?

Merlin.
Nothing.

Guenevere.
Nothing?

Merlin.
Nothing. I judge you not.
I am very old; men call me very wise;
But neither in the codes the Romans brought us,
Nor in the teaching of the Christian monks,
Nor in the stars, nor in the crucible,
No, nor in those dark elder mysteries
The immemorial Druidic years
Down the dim arches of the woods of Time
Have whispered to each other, in the aloof
And native shades of Britain, which are now
A vague tradition of the rustling oak;
Not in all these, nor in all-testing Life
That heeds not our conclusions, have I found
That there is any wisdom beyond this,
To keep oneself from judgment. In myself
Are undiscovered countries; how should I
Map out the wildernesses in another?
In those uncharted regions of your soul,
There are events of which you never dreamed
That yet have drawn your whole life after them.
I have to do only with how your deeds
Affect the State. And it imports the State
That what you have concealed should be concealed.
And therefore have I sought you, that it may
The better be concealed and that we cross not
Each other's purposes.

[The bells of the abbey begin to ring in the distance; and they continue ringing until the end of the scene.]
Dame Brisen.
It rings for vespers.
Shall I not hasten, madam?

Guenevere.
You may go.

Merlin.
Wait. Let me see the child. ... If I mistake not,
We two have stood beneath the sacred oak
Together. You were young and very fair ...

Dame Brisen.
I was that Druid priestess.

Merlin.
And since then
Men say that you have witnessed darker rites.

Dame Brisen.
Men say they know not what.

Merlin.
But you are she,
That Brisen whom I mean.

Dame Brisen.
I am that Brisen.

Merlin.
The sight is on me. I behold this child
Grown to a man; the armor that he bears
Is silvern pale; he stands among the knights
Like a white birch among grim-visaged pines;
He is like a moon-lit pillar in the night;
And angels float unseen above his head,
Bearing the Holy Graal.

Guenevere.
The Holy Graal!

Merlin.
Ay, this is he that shall achieve the Graal;
Whose birth has been foretold in prophecies
Even since King Evelac's time. This is the man
Of whom the seers have spoken, saying: He
Shall be a knight without a peer, stainless,
A virgin, set apart unto the Lord.
His arm shall be like David's, and his sword
Like Michael's when he leads the seraphim.
None shall withstand him; the immaterial Fiend
Dare not affront the flame along his blade.
So he shall pass across the twilight world
Like a white meteor and disappear
None knoweth how nor whither.

Guenevere.
Strange and holy
I know he is. In the still hours I have heard
The footfalls of celestial visitants.
Strange spells have come upon me. And I
Who am not wont to pray, have felt my soul
Become a phraseless prayer and lie, like night,
Bare to the stars. ... God, is it no sacrifice
I lay upon thy dark and shadowy altar?
Never to call him son, never to feel
His little arms about my neck, never
To hear his wakening spirit turn to mine
Its dear unfolding loves ... and now, even now
To leave him! ... I shall watch him from afar;
His glory will be trumpets in my heart;
But the great gulfs of silence are between us.
You dark remorseless creditors that exact
Our debts with usury, is it not enough? ...

Curtain.
[The bells continue to ring a few moments after the curtain falls.]

ACT II.

Scene. The top of a hill, north of Rome and west of the Tiber. Over the brink of the hill, a view of the valley of the Tiber with Rome in the distance. King Arthur, Launcelot, Lionel, Ector, and Dinadan, on horseback, attended by two Squires. King Arthur and Launcelot, a little apart from the others, converse, looking off at the city.
Arthur.
So order it.

Launcelot.
Lionel, get you back
To the main army. Order Galahault
To move his forces southward and encamp
Before Janiculum. His function there
Is by activity, assault, bravado,
To keep the enemy's eyes on him—and therefore
Away from us. The main part of the forces
Do you yourself bring forward; pitch their tents
Here to the west, so ordered that they seem
Following on Galahault's trail. You, Ector, haste
To join the advance, which must be on our heels,
And lead them hither. We shall occupy
This hill and the approach. The King and I
Will pitch our tents here on the summit. Dinadan,
You will remain; we may have need of you.

[Exeunt Lionel and Ector. Launcelot and Dinadan dismount and their horses are led off by a Squire. The other Squire approaches Arthur, still looking at the city, and after he too has dismounted, leads his horse away after the others.]
Arthur.
If Galahault can hold the foe in action
Before Janiculum, it will be easy
To cross our forces to the eastern bank
Almost without resistance. In great part,
Their legions have already fallen back.

Launcelot.
But yet they still are in great numbers there
Between the Tiber and the Flaminian Gate.

Dinadan.
That's the first Roman standard I have seen
In Italy. Our progress from the Rhone
Has been a Maying rather than a war.

Arthur.
'T was no such holidaying at the start.
You were in Britain at the worst. The war
Was six months old before you reached the camp.

Dinadan.
Not by my fault, my lord.

Arthur.
I said not so.
But thus it happened that you have not seen
How these same Romans fight. Six months they held us
North of the Loire. But our last victories
(Wherein you played your part, Sir Dinadan),
Were like a flood, bursting the sturdy dam
That had so long resisted. Their great army
Crumbled to pieces like a fog. Perforce,
They must fall back on Rome, renew themselves,
And leave our march unhindered.

Dinadan.
I am glad
You sent for me no sooner. I confess
This is the kind of war that pleases me.

Arthur.
Oh, no more ease; there are the walls of Rome.
It will be bloody work before we take them.
You shall be in the front.

Dinadan.
The devil I will! ...
Why must you send for me and not for Tristram
To bring your reinforcements? I was content
At Camelot ... and no great gain, besides;
While Tristram! ... after Launcelot the best
Among your knights! ...

Arthur.
Therefore he is in Britain.
Were all my bravest here, it would invite
Revolt among the unreconciled at home.
Especially I trust not Mark of Cornwall.

Dinadan.
Lucky Tristram! Would I might change lots with him ...
Yseult and all!

Arthur.
What's Yseult?

Dinadan.
Not heard yet
Of Yseult, Irish Yseult, Yseult the Fair,
And what men say of Tristram and of her?

Arthur.
I have heard the King of Ireland has a daughter,
Whose beauty some have praised with Guenevere's;
But not a word of Tristram.

Dinadan
(to Launcelot).
My lord the King
Takes little heed of such light things as these;
But you have heard the tale.

Launcelot.
I have heard nothing.

Dinadan.
Why, you poor exiles! All Britain whispers of it,
And Ireland too. It is the latest secret
That everybody keeps. Has not the rumor
Yet reached the camp? It fell upon this wise
—Or so the story goes—King Mark of Cornwall,
Although Sir Tristram is his sister's son,
Hates him that, having done you homage, sire,
And sworn to keep the faith of the Round Table,
He would not join him in his late revolt.
Casting about what way to do him ill
And 'scape your wrath, no sooner were you gone,
Than Mark sends Tristram into Ireland (where
The very hounds were hungry for revenge
On him that slew their masters) to demand
In Mark's behalf the Princess Yseult's hand.

Arthur.
The treacherous coward!

Dinadan.
The plot failed; for Tristram
Came in the nick of time to save the king
From something,—I forget just what it was—
But anyhow, all enmity wiped out,
The Irish welcomed Tristram like a brother,
Feasted him like a prince and sent him back
To Cornwall rich with gifts; and Yseult with him,
To be the Queen of Cornwall and Mark's wife.

Arthur.
Too vile a traitor to be so rewarded!

Dinadan.
Well, as for that ... wait till you hear the end. ...
Perhaps he was rewarded. This is what
They say; that the Queen Mother brewed a drink
Of such enchantment that whoever drank it
Should from that moment sink so deep in love
Drowning is nothing to it. This she did
That Yseult and King Mark might drink together
And no division ever sunder them;
Then gave the cup to Yseult's handmaiden
Brangwain, to give them on their wedding night.
But Yseult knew not of it; so it came
That as they sailed toward Cornwall, on a day,
Tristram being hot and thirsty, Yseult sought
A draught for him and found Brangwain asleep
And the cup by her; and they two drank thereof
And straightway loved each other.

Arthur.
Think you it true?

Dinadan.
Why, for the potion, be that as it may.
I hold it likely Tristram drank some wine,
And not unlikely that he kissed the lady;
And all, perhaps, without the devil's help.

Arthur.
Fair fall their loves; he is a worthy knight.

Launcelot
(aside).
What, Arthur!

Dinadan.
On the wedding night, they say,
Yseult would have no lights, for modesty;
And in the dark Brangwain went to King Mark,
And Yseult—did not miss him.

Launcelot.
Oh, oh, oh!

Arthur
(leaving Dinadan and going over to Launcelot).
Launcelot ... Now, fie, fie! Be merry, man.
The old rogue is well served. ... It troubles me
That you have grown so moody and apart
Of late. That ribald slander of Morgause
Against you and the Queen has poisoned all
The joy of life in you. Since then you are changed;
You smile not; and especially I note
That all light words of gallantry offend you.
Tut, let them flinch that have uneasy souls.

Launcelot.
They have grown senseless of the sting with use.

Arthur.
Were every flippant speech considered deeply,
Life would become unintermitting thorns. ...
Now as you love me!

Launcelot.
As I love you, Arthur,—

Dinadan.
My liege! Launcelot! Quick, to horse!
Look yonder!
The Romans!

Arthur.
Where? Away; we shall be taken.

Launcelot.
Why is not Ector here?

Arthur.
Away!

Dinadan.
To horse!
[Exeunt. Gallop without.]

Enter Dagonet, by another path.
Dagonet.

This is the place, but where are the knights? I was told when I came up with the army, that I should find Sir Launcelot on the crest of this hill. Well, here is the crest, and that's the nearest to knighthood I can see; the only devices here are those I am left to. I shall never dare be drunk, turn a handspring, woo a lass nor let my tongue wag o' Sundays, till I have delivered this letter. I might as well not be a Fool. This is the place, sure; yonder's Rome—the Eternal City. Well, well; now I have seen Rome. I suppose there are a great many about here could say the same thing. ... Ha! I don't know what a Roman soldier looks like, but I can guess near enough to run.

[Going.]
Enter Roman Soldiers.
Soldiers.
A prize! a prize! [Dagonet is taken.]


Enter Varro, Linus, and more Soldiers.
Varro
(speaking off).
Hold all the passes, and send forward scouts
To see how near the enemy approaches. ...
(To Linus.) These orders are to hold this place until

More troops are sent to join us. It would seem
As if the Emperor had changed his plan
And meant to cross the Tiber. ... What is this?

Linus.
A parrot, by his plumage.

Varro.
On my word,
This is the queerest capture ever I saw.
What are you, fellow?

Dagonet.

Earth, air, water, and fire—according to the opinion of the most learned philosophers.

Varro.

What?

Dagonet.

Man, sir, is thus compounded.—Earth and water is mud; mud and fire is pottery; and what are we all but jugs, with a breath of life added?

Varro.

What are you babbling? Come, sirrah, a plain answer; who are you?

Dagonet.

One of the children of the wind. Our father blows whither he listeth, and we follow the trail of his patrins. But indeed, sir, to speak plainly, I am a juggler.

Varro.

Search him.

[Certain soldiers, under the supervision of Linus, search Dagonet. Varro goes about among the soldiers, giving directions. They begin to busy themselves with the routine of camp life; some pitching tents, some building a fire, etc. Exeunt some.]
Linus.

There is nothing suspicious about him, captain.

Varro.

His answers are. They are overmuch craft or overmuch folly.

Linus.

Tut, a poor innocent! His wits are not right. There is no harm in him.

Varro.

Perhaps not. Sirrah, you are a juggler, say you? In anything but words?

Dagonet.

Why, that were the greatest jugglery of all; for the other but dazzles the eye, but this bewilders the mind itself. But in sooth I can twirl a plate upon occasion.

Varro.

If he be a juggler, he cannot be entirely fool. ... A little of your mystery.

Dagonet.

Stand back, all. Make a ring.

Soldiers.

A juggler! A juggler!

Dagonet.

Give me your purse. (Varro hands his purse to Dagonet, who puts it in his pocket.)
Thank you. (Suppressed laughter among the soldiers.)

Varro.

Call you that juggling?

Dagonet.

Oh, sir, we that are gentlemen of the road must live as we may. Your bird of passage eats in all orchards. (Takes balls from his wallet and juggles with them. The soldiers applaud.)
Pooh! Nothing ... nothing! All in the air ... Your knives, now ... Oh, they are not purses. (Juggles with knives. Applause, interrupted by a stir at the back.)

Voices.

The Emperor! The Emperor!

Enter Lucius and Publius.
Varro.

Cæsar!

[Dagonet sees Publius with a start of recognition, and tries to get out of sight. Publius catches his eye and looks at him markedly. While this is taking place—]
Lucius.
Your legion lies as I would have it.
But have a care,—this post imports me much;
Let not your merriment, which I do not censure,
Forget your soldiership. The reinforcements
Will be sent on at dusk.

Dagonet.
Lord Publius!
Whew! I must have my wits about me now.

Publius.
Know you who yonder motley fellow is?

Varro.
A juggler and a common vagabond
By his account.

Publius.
How came he in the camp?

Varro.
He is a prisoner ... an alien,
Perhaps a Briton—it seemed wisest. ...

Publius.
Cæsar,
When I was your ambassador in Britain,
That fellow there, the Queen's Fool, Dagonet,
Spoiled more than one well-thought device of mine.
I do assure you, there is danger in him.
He is alert, agile of wit and limb,
Ready in unforeseen emergency,
Well fitted for a spy. ... Has he been searched?

Varro.
But now.

Linus.
Thoroughly, my lord.

Lucius.
Is this the man
Who so enragd you as we came this way?

Linus.
'T was he, my lord.

Lucius
(throwing aside his cloak).
Bid him come hither.

Publius.
Cæsar,
'T is like the searching was perfunctory:
There may be nothing; still—he's crafty—

Lucius.
Fool,
Here is Lord Publius, a Senator,
And sometime our ambassador in Britain,
Who says you are the Queen's Fool, and no juggler.

Dagonet.

Nay, that follows not; for he must have more dexterity than a juggler, who can play the fool for a woman and keep his place. But to tell the truth, I am but a gentleman juggler, a dilettante; I do it for the love of art and not professionally. That is to say, in a sort, I am but a juggler as one were to say of Cæsar, he is a lute player.

Lucius.
Thou saucy Fool, the craftiest musicians
In Rome have praised my skill.

Dagonet.

I warrant they have; they had little craft else. Well, I also am extolled; as you are excellent among lute players, so am I in this whim of mine. An it were not for our stations, they of the crafts should find us troublesome rivals.

Lucius.

Lord Publius says you should be searched again.

Dagonet.

I hide nothing but my heart. Let it be by women this time. And your soldiers are something rougher than necessary. I am limber enough in the joints, but a flail would protest to be twisted so.

Lucius.
Your Fool is an odd rogue; I like him, Publius.
Come let us see some of this boasted sleight.

Dagonet.

If I slip, you shall blame your thirsty-throated lubbers here, that took me for a pump and

were nigh to put my shoulder out of joint. Ave, Cæsar, saltaturi salutamus.

[Turns a handspring; then, with articles borrowed from the soldiery, performs several feats of legerdemain. Suddenly he begins to turn wheels on his hands, charging directly on the soldiers, who make way for him laughing, scattering from before the fire, by which Dagonet is stopped. Alighting on his feet, he throws his cap in the air, catches it on the end of his bauble, and twirls it, throwing it up again and again until at last he misses it and it falls into the fire. He springs forward as if to snatch it out, starts back as if he had burned his fingers, makes a wry face, and then with a whoop turns a somersault backwards in the air. But Publius, who has been watching him closely, runs to the fire, and plucking the cap from the flames, tears open the lining and holds up the letter that was hidden there. Dagonet crest-fallen.]
Publius.
Said I not so? (Opens the letter.)

There's that within this letter
That is for Cæsar's ear alone.

Lucius.
Withdraw.

[Exeunt Varro, Linus and Soldiers.]
Publius.
Now this could not be better had we been
In Fortune's secrets. You remember, Cæsar,
When I came back to Rome from Arthur's court,
I told you of the Queen and Launcelot,
The love between them, and the dull King's blindness.
Here is the proof ... a letter of the Queen—
To Launcelot—this Fool the messenger. ...
Listen. (Reads.)

I have born you a son. ...

Were I to tell you what wondrous intimations I have had concerning him, it would profit nothing; for the best is not to be fixed in words, nor even in thought. ...

He is named Galahad, and it is given out that he is the child of Ylen, the daughter of King Pelles. ...

I can no longer endure it to be apart from you. Therefore I have made an excuse of the King's victories and the lessening war, to set out to join the armies. It is known here that I start within the week; and I shall have crossed the sea into France before Dagonet gives this into your hands.

Till then, when I can say what I know not how I should write,—

Guenevere.

[About this time, Dagonet, who has been sitting apart, in great dejection, lifts up his head as if an idea had come to him, looks about the scene, and then begins to watch the others attentively.]
Lucius.
Coming to join their armies! These barbarians—
They take their women everywhere! ... Could we
But capture her! If but the half be true
These bragging Britons paragon her with,
She is one of those rare things that must be looked on;
If looked on, coveted; if coveted—
I am still Cæsar. I have heard her so
Recounted that to her Faustina were
Indifferent fair; Hero but so so; and
Great Cleopatra left without a lure.
Helen herself and all Praxiteles
Could dream of Aphrodite were but hints
And guesses of her. If there be one such
And that one not be mine, why then indeed
The empire is o'erthrown and to be Cæsar
No longer master.

Publius.
Rome is not yet fallen;
But that it may not is our first concern.
See you not how this letter may be used
To split the enemy into factions?

Lucius.
Well;
You will be practical.

Publius.
If Arthur see
This letter—

Lucius.
There were some revenge in that.
Ho, ho! ho, ho! what quintessential torment
To see the picture of their stolen hours
Start up before his fancy!

Publius.
Here's the fact;
A bat could not be blind to 't. It must make
Irreparable feud between the King
And Launcelot; and half of Arthur's knights,
The fairer half, will hold with Launcelot.
The fate of Rome may hang upon this scroll.

[A silence for some moments, during which Lucius paces up and down in thought. Dagonet watches him studiously from the back, and essays quietly to counterfeit his motions. When Lucius pauses and, facing Publius, is about to speak, Dagonet softly catches up the imperial cloak from where it has fallen, wraps it about him, and exit boldly, imitating the gait and bearing of the Emperor.]
Lucius.
No, Arthur will not cut off his right hand
While it still wields the sword for him; he will not
Break up his army in opposing camps
And fall to internecine bickerings,
Whate'er the cause, here, in an alien country,
And with the prize o' the world in controversy.
It is not generalship; and I have had reason
To know how good a general he is.

Publius.
He is too foolish honest for such policy.

Lucius.
He does not plan his campaigns like a fool.
I think he could make shift to endure this knowledge
Until the issue of the war is tried.
Then—doubtless ... but what good were that to us?
No ... listen ... this is rather what to do;
Let Launcelot, not Arthur, know the letter
Is in our hands. Then offer him the choice,—
To leave their armies and transfer his power
To ours, in which event (which would ensure
Arthur's complete and instant overthrow)
He shall be crowned and sceptred over Britain
In Arthur's place. If he refuse, the King
Shall have the letter. On the one hand shame,
The Queen a by-word—worse, their trysts, their kissings
Ended forever,—and his supreme knighthood
Cast out, without a country or a cause,
An alien and alone among the nations:
On the other hand, set high above all cavils,
With Guenevere for Queen—the man were fool
To hesitate. ...

Publius.
The name of traitor has
A terror in it ... to these warriors,
Whose only thoughts are actions.

Lucius.
That's a terror
That fronts him either way. We must stretch all
To intercept the journey of the Queen.
With Guenevere our prisoner we triple
Our power on Launcelot—without forgetting
I wish to see this beauty for myself ...
It may work ... it should work ... And this same Fool
Will be our—Where is he?

Publius.
What! Gone! What ho!
Enter Varro and soldiers.
Where is the Fool?

Varro.
We left him here.

Publius.
He's gone.

Varro.
The Emperor here? One of the sentries said
He had passed by.

Lucius.
My cloak.

Publius.
Your cloak, Most Mighty?
Stolen? He has escaped. After him! Quick,
Send out—

Voices
(without).
To arms! to arms! to arms!

[The sky begins to redden with the sunset.]
Enter Linus, hurriedly.
Linus.
Captain!
The enemy are almost at our lines;
The scouts report them in great numbers on
The Cassian Way. I have called the men to arms.

Varro.
Upon us? Cæsar,—

Lucius.
Where are they that saw them?
Bring me to them.

[Exeunt all but Publius.
Voices
(without).
Fall in! fall in! fall in!

[Noises of preparation without; then silence.]
Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
Where is the Emperor?

Publius.
Whence come you?

Messenger.
From Rome.
Couriers from Cinna's Hill bring word the foe
Are moving toward Janiculum. The cohorts
Would know if they are still to advance this way.

[Cries without, “Pendragon! Pendragon!” Alarums. Noise of fighting.]
Enter Varro.
Varro.
Where 's Cæsar? They outnumber us ten to one.
We cannot hold them long. The Emperor
Must be in safety ere it is too late.
Flee he and you at once! I'll make a stand
If possible. If reinforcements come,
All 's not lost yet.

[Exit. Noises of combat.]
Enter Lucius.
Publius.
The place cannot be held.
Away, my lord!

Lucius.
Peace! ... Ho! a courier!

Messenger.
Most Mighty!

Publius.
One that comes in haste from Rome.

Lucius.
Then get you back to Rome and bid the cohorts
Without the Flaminian Gate hither at once ...
Go!

[Exit Messenger.]
Publius.
Flee, save yourself, Cæsar—

Lucius.
Peace, I say!
[Cries without, “A Launcelot! a Launcelot!”]
Enter the Romans, fleeing, in great disorder.
Why do you run, you curs? Stand! Turn! Back, slaves!
You scum of Rome! you pigs! you—

Soldiers
(dispersedly)
Save yourselves! ...
Flee! ... Out o' the way there! ... Devil take you! ... Flee!

[Lucius and Publius are swept away by the rush of the fugitives.]
Enter Britons, led by Ector. Then Launcelot, Bors, and Dinadan.
Ector.
Pendragon! On! Pendragon!

Launcelot.
On! Pursue them
As far's the bridge.

[Exeunt Ector and Britons.]
Bors.
They have but taken the pains
To pitch our tents and build our fire for us.

Dinadan.
And breathe us just sufficiently to taste
The supper we shall cook on 't with a relish.

Launcelot.
Bors, see you to the quartering of the troops
As they come up. Dinadan, follow Ector,
And, if he need more men, supply them to him.

[Exeunt Bors and Dinadan.]
Enter Dagonet. It begins to be twilight.
Dagonet.
My lord!

Launcelot.
Dagonet! ... What has happened? ...

Dagonet.

Kick me for a clod, a dolt, a duffer, a doodle! a lubberly, inept, clumsy, bungling dizzard and hobbledehoy! I am not capable of ...

Launcelot.
Plague on your prating! Set my mind at rest.
What tidings of the Queen?

Dagonet.

There's nought ill there. The Queen is well, and the child she has borne—

Launcelot.

The child!

Dagonet.

Ay, sir, a boy—a real boy, with movable eyes. The Princess Ylen has understudied for the mother and will assume the part hereafter.

Launcelot.

My son!

Dagonet.

The women feign to find a marvellous resemblance to you in him; but for my part—a man's eyes have no skill in these mysteries—but I would have said your lordship had a more plentiful provision of nose and was—...

Launcelot.

Peace, Dagonet.

Dagonet.

Nay, you have not heard all yet. The Queen is coming.

Launcelot.

Coming? Hither?

Dagonet.

With all the speed she is able. I was to go before her and make her paths straight; but I got lost in the wilderness.

Launcelot.
Coming? But all you say is like a song;
You made me think you came with evil news.

Dagonet.

One word more, and my singing is all unmusicked—off the pitch, out o' the key; and you would liefer hear a charivari of tin pans and penny trumpets. What I have told you, you should have read, in the Queen's own hand, in a letter I was to deliver you. This morning, when I overtook the armies, Sir Bors sent me forward to this hill, saying

I should find you here; where instead I found the enemy, was captured, searched, and the letter taken from me.

Launcelot.

A letter? Know you what was writ in it?

Dagonet.

Not the phrase; but I know that it spoke of her coming and of the child.

Launcelot.

The child ... Oh, my God!

Dagonet.

If you would run your sword through me, I should not much care; and if you would kick me, it would be a real kindness.

Launcelot.
We must get back the letter.
Enter Ector, Bors, and Dinadan. Afterwards, certain Soldiers with a haunch on a spit.
Here's Dagonet
Come to help us take Rome—No, do not laugh;
This is quite serious ... and what he undertakes,
More perilous than ought we soldiers do. ...
(To Soldiers.)
Go, use some other fire. We'd be alone here.

[Exeunt Soldiers.]
Dinadan.
Well, Dagonet, what are you going to do?
Set Rome on fire ... or the Tiber, which?

Launcelot.
Mask himself as a slave and enter Rome.
The King is lucky to have such a spy.
Dinadan, take him with you to your tent,
And see how well you can disfeature him.

Dinadan.
Disfeature him? I'll so disfeature him
His bath-tub would n't know him.

Dagonet.

Come along, then. You may shave me as bald as a Greek monk. You may dye me black, yellow, or striped. You may make anything of me, from Epictetus to a blackamoor. Only I bar mutes and eunuchs.

Dinadan.

A few slashes, with peppers in them ...

Dagonet.

Hold! ... Well, for the sake of the cause. A beggar will ulcerate himself for a penny, and my reward is glory.

Dinadan.
Then you will go to glory pickled.

Dagonet.
Why, then my glory will keep.

Dinadan.
Come on, Fool.

Dagonet.
After you, sir.

[Exeunt Dinadan and Dagonet.]
Launcelot.
Follow them, Ector, lest their frolic wits
Outrun the purpose with mere travesty. ...
[Exit Ector.]
Where is the King?

Bors.
Seeing the enemy
In no great force, and a mere skirmish forward
Wherein we must be victors, he turned back
To rejoin Lionel, and himself o'erlook
The dispositions made of the main forces.

Soldiers
(without, singing).
Then out, boys, and forage,
For a man can't fight on porridge
And swagger with a soldierly effrontery.
There 's no butcher to be paid,
And no game laws to evade
In the heart of the enemy's country.
Hi! hi! hi!

Bors.
I am not so wakeful as those fellows yonder;
I'll have a bite of supper and to bed.

Launcelot.
Good night, then, Bors.

Bors.
Good night.
[Exit Bors.

Launcelot.
Have all these men
No cankers in their hearts? Is it the great
Alone that suffer, that these simple folk
Are so light-hearted?

A Soldier
(without, singing).

Launcelot.
Yet to have a son!
That's worth an agony. ... Born of such a mother!—
How his achievements will keep life a joy!
The day he puts his armor on, unblazoned,
And goes to his first victory, what pride
To see his helmet glittering in the sun!
Such pride in one's own deeds would spoil the deed;
A son's accomplishment is ours for triumph,
Not ours for selfward shame. To have a son!
Now could I almost join the soldiers there
And sing for mere o'erflowing.

Soldiers
(without, singing).
On with the King! On with the King!
Sword, flash, and battle-axe, swing!
Shout, “For the King!”
Cheer, “For the King!”
Strike—for the King!

Launcelot.
We are in the palm
Of Fate. The unremitting drift of things
Bears us we know not whither—to be engulfed,
Or by a random whim of chance swept on
To some haphazard safety ... all to nothing!
There seems not so much hope as would suffice
To make a weary swimmer struggle on,
No sail nor shore in sight. ... Yet I am calm, ...
Calm as the night ... as pure of doubt or dread
As if the sky had told me All is well.
It is strange. ... And she is coming! Fill her sails
With nimble wafture, wind—but gently, too,
As now you touch my forehead. Glide away
Beneath her wheels like running water, roads,
And speed her hither in a dream. ... Coming! ...
What a still joy is in the air to-night!
As if earth hushed her noises that our souls
Might hear each other across the silent leagues. ...
Have your will, Fate: not on us is its might.

[Pauses, and stands silently, in the light of the fire, with his cloak wrapped about him, looking out over the valley.]
Soldiers
(without, singing).
There 's Meg and there's Molly
And there's Susan and there's Polly;
And we'll all be jolly
When we're home from the wars

Curtain.

ACT III.

Scene. Rome. Evening. Gardens of the Palace of Lucius. At back, a colonnade of the palace, with balcony above. On one side, a place arranged for the performance of an interlude. The palace is brilliantly lighted, and sounds of feasting and revel are heard. Voconius and Voconia.
A Voice
(without, singing).
Tell me no grim tales of a surly morrow;
Wreathe me with roses.

Voconius.
That is Terentius singing; his cæsuras
Would make Catullus creep. There, look, from here
You can see Cæsar.

Voconia.
With the purple toga,
And bay-leaves in his hair?

Voconius.
Ay. ... Let me clasp
This buckle for you; there, that 's better; now
The flesh just hints it hides there, as you walk ...
You are perfect in the lines?

Voconia.
Yes. ... He is like
The statues of Antinous.

Voconius.
That's Metella
That sits by him;—she bores him now. And that's
Her uncle, Publius Metellus, who
Whispers apart with Cæsar; he and Bursa
Are Cæsar's favorites.

Voconia.
And you, Voconius?

Voconius.
But after them. I hope, my little sister,
To change all that, now you are come to court.

[Attendants pass across the scene, bearing fruits and wines. Laughter within the palace.]
Voconia.
Oh, how I long for all that life—the laughter,
The motion, the delight!

Voconius.
It is all yours
To-night, Voconia; only do not play
The frightened fool to Cæsar.

Voconia.
If I falter
It will be with the shudder of new joy.

Voconius.
A coyness, if you will; but not too far.

Voconia.
No fear, brother. I have dreamed of this time,—
And Lydia, my nurse, has read me tales
Out of your library, and poems, till
I would drink the very wine whose airy vision
I tire to lift in fancy to my lips.

Voconius.
Good; I so ordered it. Your education
Has been a care to me. ... The Emperor
Is in a happy mood. Yesterday Bursa
Defeated Galahault at Janiculum,
And captured him, with many of his men.
The captive general is here, to make
The banquet more triumphant. Now come we,
And on the crest and sprayward of his humor
Light like a sunbeam shattered into mist.
I have just come from Cæsar; he is pleased
Graciously to commend the title of
My interlude, “The Rape of Helen,”—he
Is in the vein for 't. Oh, he knows the difference
Between me and Terentius! ... Let the peplos
Loosen a little and slip down—so—as if
You were unaware. ... When Helen says, “And thou,
If I be she of whom the goddess speaks,
Take me,”—look not at Paris, look at Cæsar.
I'll yield the role to him there ... and the rest
You may improvise between you.—Withdraw yonder.
I'll back to Cæsar and conduct him hither.

[Exit.]
Voconia.
O dreams and long desires, farewell, farewell!
How beautiful is Cæsar!

[Exit.]
Enter a Monk. Various persons pass across the scene, among them, Dagonet, disguised. The Monk detains him.
Dagonet.
Have you brought the manuscripts?

Monk.

They are a mirror-snare of Satan. They have filled my ears with a buzzing of fiends. They stir up evil thoughts in the heart and make the abomination of Baal and Ashtoreth to swim between mine eyes and the crucifix. But that our holy father, the

Pope, had commanded me to copy them for you, I had torn them in pieces a dozen times and burned the fragments with fire.

Dagonet.

Why, I heard Voconius declaim the verses, and I was not prompted to so much as a wriggle. But I am not a monk. And I am hardened to bad poets.

Monk.

May the thoughts they bred in me be forgiven! I did contend stoutly with them.

Dagonet.

Tut, man, the Pope will absolve you. You sinned for the glory of God. Give me the manuscripts, and copy this.

Monk.

Shall I put my soul in peril again?

Dagonet.

Tell me this,—do you not wish for the success of King Arthur?

Monk.

Sir, the Pope and all good Christians pray for him daily. He is a righteous man; and he is descended from the holy Empress, Saint Helena, that found the Cross, and from the great Constantine, who saw the glory of it in the heavens. He hath the better title to the empire, and the present government is a revel of Antichrist.

Dagonet.

I serve King Arthur. My business here, my true business, is the discovery of certain papers. To make my search the easier, the Pope commended me to Voconius for a scribe; and as everybody knows His Holiness has the best calligraphers in Rome, Voconius was delighted to buy me, and the coffers of the Church were enriched. ...

Now I learned letters enough of the Glastonbury monks to read what is writ plain, if I be not hurried; but a scribe—! They would take my pothooks for ancient Chaldean. The Pope's reputation would be gone forever; and I should be flogged for a dunce or a cheat, or worse, the plot discovered and— (making a gesture as of a noose about his neck)
the Lord have mercy on my soul!

Monk.

Give me the new manuscript. I will speak to the prior.

Dagonet.

Do so; and to the Pope himself, too. ... Now, be off; they are coming.

Monk.

Dominus vobiscum.

[Exit.]
Dagonet
(looking at the copies brought by the Monk).

Marvellously chirographied! Dagonet, Dagonet, who would have thought thou hadst this art in thee! Who knows what he can do till he tries?

Enter Slaves, with torches; then Lucius, Voconius, Metella, Publius, Galahault, Senators, Knights, Courtiers, Ladies, Attendants, etc.
Publius
(To Galahault).
Though Bursa get the glory of your capture,
I cannot be persuaded but that you
Were your own conqueror. When a veteran
Dares a defeat like a foolhardy boy,
He means to be defeated,—he's a reason ...

Lucius
(to Voconius).
Well, more of this again.
I do not question,
Mind you, but art may wring a compelled beauty
Out of the very meanness of its means.

Voconius.
I grant my judgment weaker, but meseems
Rhyme is no meanness but a charm the more
The ancients knew not of.

Lucius.
The charm 's too simple,
Too obvious; but our decadent art
Must have its cymbals. Come, your interlude ...
You present Paris ...?

Voconius.
And my sister, Helen;
I crave your gentle judgment for us both.

[Exit.
Lucius.
I did not know Voconius had a sister.

Metella.
A school-girl,—come to court for the first time
To-night,—a nun-bred miss. A proper Helen!
Helen the vestal! Helen the ingénue!

Lucius.
Sir Galahault, pray you, be not withdrawn
So far from us; a word with you. [They talk apart.]


Metella
(to Publius).
Where 's Bursa?

Publius.
He left the palace not an hour ago.
Some news that came by sudden courier
Put him clean from the matter here in hand.

Metella.
What can it be, I wonder?

Publius.
I suspect,
Some news of Guenevere's itinerary.
I cannot think what else should stir him so;
He knows her capture is a thing that Cæsar
Makes much of.

Metella.
Is it so?

Lucius.
—a merry ... Publius!

[Lucius and Publius converse.]
Metella.
Sir Galahault, in your far Britain what
Are the chief sights you boast of?

Galahault.
Truly, madam,
I think the fairest sight that Britain boasts
Is camped before your walls.

Metella.
Nay, but I meant ...

[They go on conversing.]
Lucius.
It is not that. We have known for several days
The route she follows. If she change it not,
Our ambuscade is sure. Perhaps she—Well,
We'll know anon. Here comes our interlude.

Enter Voconius as Paris.
Paris.
Sea-born and subtle and fair and mighty as the sea,
Changing and changeless Aphrodite, unto thee
I lift my voice in praise and my palms in thanksgiving;
Who hast brought me, witless of the port I sailed for, giving
The helm to Chance and thee, hither to the Argive shore
In my black ships, and folding me about with more
Than earthly mist hast led my steps, divinely dazed,
Hither; and all the blind night from my soul is rased.
For surely now I am aware that I shall see
Her whom thy divine kiss-wise lips have promised me,
The fairest among women. ... Are they nymphs that yonder
Rise from the roseate waters like the dreams that wander
About the tranced woods of young vision? Lo, they stand
Naked and naiad-haired upon the river strand
And the air flushes with their bodies and the morning.
I tremble, and my heart swells with a divine warning;
No water-spirits these,—human and kindred-sweet,
For now they gather up strewn garments at their feet,
Such as the Spartan women wear; and now they cover
The beauty that has had the winds and waves for lover.
One only, lordlier, lovelier than the others, still
Stands rapturous of the air. They wait upon her will
As on a queen's. Their beauty in her beauty merges
As the dim stars at dawn founder in luminous surges.
I cannot see her face, but all love's splendor slips
Down shoulders like the moon and the music of her hips.
Now at a sign they bring her saffron peplos to her;
And now ... she turns—Cypris! if it be not to woo her,
Her, daughter of desire and mystery and joy,
Why hast thou led me hither from the towers of Troy
Across the winy sea? Surely none other fairer
Than she in all the round world might the furthest farer
Of all earth's wanderers find; but I, beholding her,
Praise thee, O Queen of Love, and am thy worshipper. ...

Lucius.
Well done, Voconius!

All.
Bravo! Well done, Voconius!

Lucius.
What crafty Alexandrines! Poet first,—
But only less the actor.

All.
Bravo, bravo!

Enter Chorus of Spartan Damsels, and Voconia, as Helen.
Chorus.
Sparta, thy daughters,
[str.
Fearless and free,—
Behold us, how we laugh at the cold hill-waters,
Blush not for bodies brown with the sun,
Tough with the wind and rain!
The young men fear us in the footrace; we
Are not useless in casting the javelin. Swift and sane,
(Out of air, life and strife beauty born!)
The gods have made us goodly to look upon
And no man does us scorn.

What was there wanting,
[ant.
Sparta, to thee?
The touch of sky that beggars the brown earth's vaunting,
Beauty that pierces men like a spear,
Beauty divinely bright,
Not of the earth, that makes men mad to see;
Until Helen was given thee for queen and the wonder-light
Drenched the dales, flushed the peaks as with wine,—
Beauty that makes the whole world tremble and veer
And reel into the divine.
Daughter of Leda, Queen!
[ep.
What god has given thee
The splendor and the sheen
Of the dawns that live in thee?
Our praise is alien, unimpassioned, far,
To do thee honor, star
Of the flushed cast!
Sparta is not aflame
Enough to be thy priest.
Beauty is with child with Love,
And until Love be born
There is no name
By which her rite is said.
Come, then, and above
Our altars from
Lighten with morn,
Love!
He comes, O Helen; not forever
Shalt thou be mocked with undivine endeavor.
Lift up thy head,
Daughter of Leda!
[Applause.]
Lucius.
A fairer Helen never played the part.
Is she not exquisite, Sir Galahault?

Galahault.
As lyric as a throstle's song, my lord.

Metella.
Too slight for Helen—pretty, but girlish.

Lucius.
Peace!
Now Paris speaks.

Paris.
Whoe'er thou be, in Sparta's rough and rocky ways
That standest like a dream of flowers and fervent days,
Rose-wrought and clad with a diviner air, live ever!

Helen.
Hail, Prince, for so thou seemest! Welcome!

Paris.
I have never,
Save in the immortal goddesses, seen with my eyes
Beauty passing the beauty of women, till now you rise
Like a new throne in heaven.

Helen.
What word is this you utter
Of the immortal goddesses?

Paris.
Yea, for the utter
And incommunicable beauty of those three most high,
Here and Athene and Aphrodite, I, even I,
Paris, the son of Priam, prince of tower-built Ilion,
Saw naked; for they chose me, me out of the million
On million of the eyes of mortals, to behold
No borrowed feature but their very beauty, and hold
The scales of judgment, weighing to which divinest splendor
Of such the supreme three, it were but due to render
The golden apple by unbidden Ate flung,
Marked “To the fairest.”

Helen.
Tell us, prithee, then, among
Such beauty which supreme for beauty thou declarest,
O thou that judgest gods!

Paris.
Because I named her fairest,
Devious-minded Aphrodite has sworn an oath
That the most fair of women shall give me her troth
And couch with me in Troy. But thou—who is above thee,
Who of the daughters of men?

Helen.
And thou wouldst that I love thee?
Fie! this is a low thought thou pluckest from its sheath.

Chorus.
A shameless word has crossed the doorsill of his teeth.

Paris.
Shame dwells not with the gods nor in speech which the gods warrant.

Helen.
Say no more, lest the King's wrath whelm thee in its torrent.
Seek her among the maidens; I am wife and Queen.

Chorus.
Such impudence of evil we have never seen.

Paris.
No king's wrath terrifies me, but lest anger lighten
From that clear brow of thine. Those lifted lids can frighten
More than the lidless eyes of Death.

Helen.
They make not die.

Paris.
Yea, if they slay my soul, what though the limbs live? I
Am dead, no less. Be merciful as thou art mighty!

Helen.
What god burns in my veins? Is it thou, Aphrodite? ...
Counsel me, girls; the man is fair to look upon,
Persuasive, and a goddess urges his cause on.

Chorus.
Surely the man is goodly, and the gods not to be thwarted.

Helen.
A goddess also hinders me, the Queen of wide-courted
Heaven, lady of marriage-beds, and sets my soul at odds.

Chorus.
We counsel that thou give due honor to both gods.

Helen.
When each gives each the lie! Your counsel profits little.

Paris.
The will of the goddess is not weak nor her words brittle.
Knewest thou ever an oracle that went unfulfilled?
If thou deny me, then needs must be what she willed
Other, and thou art not the fairest among women.
Who shall say that, with eyes that sight grows not yet dim in?
And since thou art the fairest, as all men may see,
Be pious to the gods and pitiful to me.

Helen.
No; lest men say I make myself to be the foremost,
Too eager for the doom ordained. And men adore most
Those who exalt themselves not. If the fairest indeed,
Let her declare me so by no ambiguous deed.
No word nor will of mine her oracle fulfilling,
Let her put forth her power and master me unwilling.
And thou, if I be she of whom the goddess speaks,
Take me despite myself, and despite all the Greeks.

[Voconius, stepping out of his part, turns to Lucius and recites by way of Epilogue the lines that follow.]
Voconius.
I have dared higher than the Muses will,
A song too splendid for my simple skill.
I am not Paris, to see beauty bare;
Not Ovid I, such visions to declare.
Forgive, Apollo; let some greater bard
Achieve the raptures proved for me too hard.
Is there not here a poet with a lyre
To end my broken song with thine own fire;
A greater prince than all the line of Troy,
And dear to Venus as the Dardan boy?
If such there be, a new-born god of day,
Let him, compassionate of my feebler lay,
Assume the rôle too heavy for my hands
And take the gods' best gift: there Helen stands!

Chorus.
For the gods that brought Helen to birth
Gave to Cæsar the rule of the earth.

[The doors of the palace open and Guenevere appears between the pillars, attended by Bursa.]
Lucius.
There Helen stands!

[A pause. Sensation.]
Bursa.
I come late to the feast;
But bring a forfeit makes my fault seem golden,—
Guenevere, Queen of Britain.

Guenevere.
Which is Cæsar? ...
Since Cæsar wars on women and his arms
Have made me prisoner, I sue to Cæsar
For leave to guard one royal privilege,
My privacy.

Lucius.
Guards, slaves, attend the Queen!
Be her desires commands!
[Exit Guenevere, attended.]
Break up the feast!
And each one to his house!

[Exeunt all except Galahault, Metella, Voconia, and Publius.]
Metella.
Sir Galahault!
At midnight, by the ilex! It may be
That I can find a way to set the Queen
At liberty—perhaps yourself as well—
I know not. I must set my wits at work.

[Exit.]
Publius
(approaching.)
Fear nothing for the Queen, Sir Galahault.
I know not what Metella said to you,
But I have a shrewd guess. Well, do not heed her.
I have her interests at heart, and yours,
As well as mine,—for hers and yours are mine
In this. Believe me, 't is the prudent part
To be of my advice. If 't please you come
To my apartment in an hour from now,
I'll give you weighty reasons.

Galahault.
Very well.
[Exit Publius.
Lady (approaching Voconia, who is weeping)
, our northern masques are rough to yours,
And I perhaps no critic; but methought
Your Helen had a grace, a charm, like April
When she comes up with lilies from the south.
If not the Helen that the minstrels sing,
Standing upon the battlements of Troy,
Great with having much lived, no less a Helen,
Such as she might have been ere she had loved,
Sweet with the bud's life, wistful, incomplete,
And beautiful with unacquainted eyes.
I am much beholden to you.
[Going.]
Enter Voconius.
Sir, your comedy
Was worth a better epilogue.

[Exit.]
Voconius.
Indeed
It had an epilogue not on the bills.
Perdition! To be beaten by a fluke!
All my art jangled by a brutal fact!
Well, why do you stay here? You make me wait.
I must come back for you! ... And this barbarian,
Who proffers sentence like an amateur ...
My comedy—a better epilogue ...
What was he saying to you?

Voconia.
The one word
Of kindliness in my humiliation.
Oh, I believe it is another life
They have where he has lived! He has an air
As if he saw a world we overlook.

Voconius.
I half believe you are in love with him.

Voconia.
And if I said I were!

Voconius.
Bah! a barbarian.

Voconia.
When all the others left without a look
So much as if they were aware we lived,
He only took the pains to speak to me.
There was a better breed of courtesy
In this than all our fine punctilios.

Voconius.
Your country's enemy!

Voconia.
Do not be absurd.
You have instructed me in many things,
But I do not remember that to love
My country was among them. What is Rome
To you, or any Roman of us all?
A place where it is good to eat and drink.
Your country is your interest with Cæsar.

Voconius.
And who but you were but a moment since
All for this Cæsar, eager for his favor,
And hot for all this life you hold so cheap?

Voconia.
I have had a bandage taken from my eyes;
And the poor pennies that I groped for seem
As nothing to the treasure of beautiful things
I see about me. Yes, I love ... I love!
Go you to Cæsar, if you will; but I,
Although my hero take no thought for me,
Will follow him and serve him till I die.

Voconius.
This is a mere child's folly. Come with me.

Voconia.
Let me stay here alone a moment first.
It is a fancy; but I have a need
Somehow to be here quiet and not think.
I will not keep you long ... I beg of you ...

Voconius.
You are a fool.

[Exit.
Voconia.
I saw him coming back.

[Withdraws into the shadows.]
Enter Galahault and Dagonet.
Galahault.
... So many things at once I knew not of.
I had no notion you were not in Britain;
You startled me.

Dagonet.

I would I could get word to the Queen that I am here. Even a dog counts, if it is your own dog.

Galahault.
Remain you here awhile. I know not yet
What is to happen. There are plots afoot.
Publius and Metella severally
Seek to have private speech with me to-night.
Wait here, until I know what comes of it.

Dagonet.

By the mass, I cannot. I am a slave. I belong to Voconius. And it is even now time that I should be within doors. He has paid good money for me, believing me to excel in the copying of manuscripts. My function is chiefly to transcribe his verses.

Galahault.

A scrivener, Dagonet? How do you manage that?

Dagonet.

Farm it out, as his steward does his rents. The Pope being with us secretly, I stand well with the monks here. It is ticklish walking; a tight-rope is nothing to it. But I hope not to tumble until—What was that?

Galahault.
Where?

Dagonet.

Something flitting in the shadows there. ... [Starts toward the palace as if to head off Voconia, who comes forward.]

Voconia.
Sir, I have overheard your conversation;
I did not mean to ... Pray you, pardon me. ...
Oh, I will not betray you. ... 'T is not that.
I'd serve you. ... Let him stay with you to-night.
I will excuse his absence to my brother—
Say I employed him in my own affairs. ...
Hold! (To Dagonet.)
You, sirrah, I bid you serve this lord
To-night; he is your master until morning.
You have my orders to remain here.

[Going.]
Galahault.
Stay!

Voconia.
Oh, sir, my brother waits for me.

Galahault.
No less
Let me conduct you to him. You must hear
My thanks, lady, whether you will or no.

[Exeunt Galahault and Voconia. When they are well off, Dagonet whistles.]
Enter Guenevere, on the balcony, followed by Lucius. Dagonet withdraws under the trees.
Guenevere.
The air is sultry. I stifle in the room.

Lucius
(unclasping a girdle).
Pearls to a princess are a futile gift;
But note the workmanship—what craft of line!
Intractable jade carved intricately and free
As woven frondage, and the pearls in it
I know not by what miracle of art
Made part of it and better than themselves
Like berries in the mistletoe. Receive it
As earnest of the rate I hold you at.

Guenevere.
Why, would you set a price upon my head?
I cannot else be rated.

Lucius.
Nay, but as
A conquered prince may render nominal tribute,
Itself a trifle, token none the less
He doth confess the victor suzerain.

Guenevere.
Strange victor, who must ask her vassal's leave
To go or come!

Lucius.
May not a vassal pluck
His master by the sleeve and hold him so
A moment, while he has a suit to him?

Guenevere.
You hold yourself no vassal to me, Cæsar.

Lucius.
Oh, but I do. You will not take the sense
In which you are more powerful than Cæsar
And take your captors captive.

Guenevere.
Do I so?
Now this is marvellous.

Lucius.
I do not think
My meaning is so dark to you, although
You make it seem so.

Guenevere.
Pray you, be content
To let it seem so, then ... You of the south
Cry out upon our northern mists and fogs,
But I have found that these make many things
Fair that I do not find so in the sun.

Lucius.
Then let this speak me to you through a veil.

Guenevere.
It is most beautiful; and a lordly gift,
Worthy of prince to prince.

Lucius.
But you refuse it.

Guenevere.
I am your captive.

Lucius.
You are Queen of Britain.

Guenevere.
And does Rome send a friendly gift to Britain? ...
Where is my throne, my state, my ceremony,
That I should give due honor to the gift?

Lucius.
Your throne is where you are, your presence state
Beyond all pageantry. ... You will not? ...
[He replaces the girdle and is silent.]
Madam, you are too proud. You are a queen,
But I am Cæsar.

Guenevere.
Our imperial cousin,
Therefore. I know the boast the Cæsars make,
That kings are but their dukes and deputies;
But we of Britain do not brook your boast.
Nor, Lucius Cæsar, were I but myself,
No queen at all, would I accept the gifts
Of any, even Cæsar, not being free.

Lucius.
Why, let the politics alone, then. Take it
We are but man and woman, you and I,
Lucius and Guenevere! I bring no gifts,
I only see how beautiful you are—
Nay, I have looked on beauty many times
But never until now on something lambent
And magical and not to be expressed,
Which is perhaps what they that dwell in Mars
Or Algol may call beauty. Mere perfection
Is cold and lacks the wizardry of charm,
The melody and moonlight of desire,
That makes you glow with something far and sey.

Guenevere.
What time is it?

Lucius.
What time is it? I know not.
Why, madam, what I speak of is not light,
Nor to be turned off with a light reply.

Guenevere.
I have been told that I am beautiful
By many men and mirrors. ... So be it;
I am more interested in the time.

Lucius.
Are you a woman or a marble goddess?
No marble, certes! Yet the gods themselves,
Or so they fable, found delight in gifts
And praise; but you recoil from these and harden.
What can I do to show you that I love you?
Just love, perhaps—ay, that is best. No price
To buy love with, but love. If you but knew,
If you would but believe how I desire you,
I think such love would breed some love in you;
At least some favor, some sweet courtesy.

Guenevere.
I will believe you love me when you are silent;
For what is my desire would be yours too,
If you indeed loved.

Lucius.
Is that love that is
So mild it can be mastered? Is it love
That cares so little it can yield its hope
Without a struggle? I do not love you so.
To lack you is a gap I cannot fill
With moral maxims.

Guenevere.
Nor with noble deeds!

Lucius.
Oh, think what we might live! The world should be
The lackey of our pleasure. Samarcand
Shall clothe our limbs in silks and India
Make sweet the rooms with sandal; wines from Crete,
Iberia, and the Rhone; the Arabian berry,
Rumored of far infrequent travellers,
Brought first to the West for us—Oh, we shall sit
Like the old gods, Olympic ... while the smoke
Of the world's hecatombs comes up to us,
The lords of the earth, the gods of it ... [Touching her arm.]


Guenevere.
Slave!

Lucius.
Slave? .. slave—?

Guenevere.
Oh! ... Throw thy crown for serfs to scramble for!
Go find some squire that loves and sue to be
His knave till thou learn what it is to be
A lover and a knight!

Lucius.
God! ... Oh, I'll wring
A bitter-sweet revenge of you!

Guenevere.
Thou wilt?
What wilt thou do?

Lucius.
This first. [Seizes her forcibly and kisses her.]


Guenevere.
Ah!—Oh! ... oh! ...
Death! thou hast dared—thou ... Gah! Wert thou a snake,
More horror would not shudder down my soul.
Take thyself hence, that like a leprosy
Infectest the foul night; go—Think not, Lucius,
My soul is such a thing as fears may stifle—
Blottest thou my sight still? Go, go, go, go, go! ...

Lucius.
Madam, you are superb. I am no tyrant,—
At least no vandal. I can no more mar
So fine a passion with an after-scene
Than chip a Venus of Praxiteles.
So, fare you well—until we meet again ...
I am more yours than ever.

[Exit.]
Dagonet
(gliding out of the shadows).
S-s-s-t!

Curtain.

ACT IV.

Scene. Night. A wild part of the Campagna. Enter Publius, Bursa, Galahault, Guenevere and Soldiers. Publius and Bursa somewhat apart from the others.
Bursa.
Halt!

An Officer.
Halt!

Bursa.
This is the place.

Publius.
Is there some shelter
Near by?

Bursa.
A sort of cavern.

Publius.
Let the Queen
And Galahault be conveyed there.

Bursa.
They will be
As well under the stars; 't is a rough place.

Publius.
Let them be made as easeful as may be;
But we should be alone when Launcelot comes.

Bursa.
I hardly credit that he comes alone.

Publius.
At first he would not, but at last consented
On Varro's safeguard.

Bursa.
Varro's!

Publius.
There 's some oath
Of brother-in-arms between them.

Bursa.
How is that?

Publius.
Some friendship that began when Launcelot
Held Varro prisoner.

Bursa.
He takes his word?
Why,—what prevents us?—we might hold him captive,
And—think of it—he ...

Publius.
No; Varro might, not we.
The soldiers are all his. Besides, he has
A special and unlimited commission
From Cæsar, making his command to-night
An independent service, that reports
Direct to Cæsar and to him alone.

Bursa.
Not even to me?

Publius.
No; you are here, as I am
An envoy, not a general.

Bursa.
Has Cæsar
Put such a slight upon me? Not command
My officer? Had I been told of this,
I had seen all your politics in hell
Ere I had come!

Publius.
It has all been conceived,
Planned, executed in so short a time
There was no chance to tell you. Only thus
Would Varro pledge his word; and Launcelot
Would have no other surety. Be not angry.
Consider, 't is but for a night; and then,
The exigence. Why stand upon a scruple,
If it turns the scale; ... but rather than lose all,
Be somewhat blind to what you cannot help.

Bursa.
I like it not.

Publius.
Nor I; but failure less.

Guenevere.
Why have you brought us to this lonely place?

Publius.
Madam, we serve the Emperor's desires ...
But, in this case, believe me, yours as well.

Guenevere.
The Emperor's desires will be ill served
If you serve mine indeed! (Continuing as if to herself.)
They were served well
If some strange sudden evil fell on him ...

Publius.
Madam, you mistake me—and the Emperor.
That Cæsar loves you, I can no wise doubt,
When I look on you; I should wonder rather
That there were any one who loved you not,
Being great enough to dare. But divine Cæsar,
Who is as God over men's earthly fates,
Ordains not for himself but for their weal
Whom Heaven commits to his authority.
See now how you misjudge him; we are here
For your sake, madam ... to bring to you a friend ...
Sir Launcelot. ...

Guenevere.
It will rejoice me much
To see a knightly face of mine own court ...
But what does godlike Cæsar's omniprescience
Discern in this “for those whom Heaven commits
To his authority”? Some general good,
Doubtless, beyond the pleasure of a queen.

Publius.
It were a general good the war should cease;
And were that general good so brought to pass
That the same means that wrought it wrought as well
Some courtesy particular to one
To whom the general good itself might yield
A little and the world yet be no loser,—

Guenevere.
Why, what a mouse of compliment is this
The mountain labors with! Come, sir, your point.
I have no will to end the war—what then?

Publius.
But if it end for Cæsar's good and yours?

Guenevere.
How can my good and Cæsar's be the same?

Publius.
By nothing that is not your heart's desire.
You'll say so when you know ...

Bursa.
Hark!

Publius.
Are they coming?

Bursa.
It is their horses' hoofs upon the rocks.

Publius.
Madam, and you, most noble Galahault,
Pray you, withdraw a little ... Officer! ...
(To Guenevere.)
This will all clear itself. (To Galahault.)
That which I spoke of
Is sudden ripe; he meets us here to-night.

Galahault.
Sir Launcelot?

Publius.
Ay; you were thus much wrong,—
Perhaps in the rest, too.

Galahault.
Never believe it; he will not.

Publius.
Well, we shall see. You hold with us if he does—
[Exeunt Guenevere, Galahault and Soldiers.]
And if he does not, there's no faith in reason ...
What, sullen still? Why, look you, man, we tremble
Upon the dizzy edge of ruin. Fail
To win this lover-warrior, Launcelot—
I hope we shall not—but if we should fail,
What 's left to us but death, or loss of all
That makes life life,—place, pride, power, riches, all
Blown to the winds like dust from Stromboli!
Be not deceived that Galahault is taken.
The empire's lost; Rome only still is ours,
And no hope save division in the foe.
At such a time fits not to stand on forms.
Come, man, your help.

Bursa.
Why, such help as I can;
But I've no stomach for it.

Enter Varro and Launcelot.
Varro.
Yonder they stand.
I'll wait apart here where the soldiers are.

Launcelot.
My friend!

Varro.
Well, well, no words.

[They clasp hands and exit Varro.]
Publius.
You know each other?

Launcelot.
Well, in the field.

Publius.
We are both knowing to this;
Speak, therefore, to us both.

Launcelot.
You say you have
A certain letter. What's your price for it?

Publius.
Oh, sir, you gallop.

Launcelot.
I am not come here,
Leaving my camp with this night-muffled haste,
For smirk and roundabout of envoy phrase.
You say you have a letter; I reply,
Let me look on it. If it be what you
Report it,—take the ransom of a king. ...

Publius.
You rate it highly ... but I highlier.
I would not barter it for aught so gross
As gold; in fine, the thing is priceless, sir.
But what I would not sell my enemy,
I'd give my friend.

Launcelot.
Give? Is it possible!

Publius.
Ay, to my friend.

Launcelot.
Friend? What mean you by that?

Bursa.
Pledge us your friendship, noble Launcelot,
And we will send your letter back with gifts.

Launcelot.
You seem to speak me fair and honorable;
But yet your pardon, sirs, if I mistrust
The sudden friendship of an ancient foe. ...
Friendship? You cannot mean that comrade love
That knits men closer than the clasp of kin.
That is not born of compact nor discretion,
Nor ripened in a night.

Publius.
May 't grow to that!
But there must be a friendship to begin with.

Launcelot.
You say well; and indeed I must be friends
With those who friend me. I were ingrate else.

Bursa.
Here 's my hand on it. I loved you for a foe,
And fought you as a man might clip his mistress;
But side by side instead of face to face,
We'll rout the very thunder.

Launcelot.
Side by side ...
Side by side ...

Publius
(hastily).
You shall be king in Britain,
And Guenevere your queen.

Launcelot.
Treason!

Publius.
No treason;
Treason is to the State, and that is Cæsar,
To whom your king and you alike owe fealty.

Launcelot.
That is our quarrel; I'll not argue it.
Treason or no treason to the State, it is
Black treason to my friend and to my cause.

Publius.
Are you so slow to treason to your friend?
Oh, sir, you cannot be both true and false
At once. I know you loyalty itself,
Saving to Arthur—who could blame you that?—
But true to him you are not. Then be true
At least to your own course and to yourself.
Play not the hypocrite to your own soul
To lull yourself with loyalty by halves.
Being against him, oh be wholly so—
No secret enemy, but an open one!
And since a fate is on you to be false,
Be bravely false and reap the fruits of it.

Launcelot.
I am no hypocrite; I love the King,
Howe'er my life bely it.

Publius.
Love him? Why?
What loves he, think you? Not the Queen. Not you.
Not anything but his ambition. What!
Would he not sacrifice you both to-day
For what he calls the welfare of the State,
Which is his own? Put he not under foot
His early loves, to make a stairway of
To mount the throne? ...

Launcelot.
You understand him not.
'T is no defect of heart in him, but rather
That his great heart has room for all the world,
And for that million-throated need endures
His friends' denial as his own. Were we
Not willing, we should not be worthy of him.

Bursa.
And call you this cold-blooded mask a friend?

Publius.
If the world take him for its Cæsar, ware;
King Stork may make King Log a world's regret.
The rigor of his rule already 'gins
To gall the people. The army chafes at it.
Even the leaders are rebellion-ripe
And wait but to be plucked. 'T is love of you
More than the King that keeps them faithful now.
You'll not believe me; but yourself shall hear
The lips of Galahault himself declare it.
(To Bursa.)
Summon him.

Bursa.
Officer!

[The Officer appears, speaks with Bursa and retires. Meanwhile:]
Publius.
You shall be king,
And the war-wearied world again have peace.

Launcelot.
I laid aside a crown to follow him.

Publius.
And Guenevere your queen. ... (Pause.)


Launcelot.
There spoke the Devil!

Publius.
You yet shall say I am your better angel. ...
Enter Galahault.
Sir Launcelot would be assured 't is true
That, were he reconciled with Cæsar, half
Your armies would come with him. So I told him;
So you told me; forsooth, his modesty
Will not believe it without confirmation.

Galahault.
Do not believe that ever I believed
You would be aught but Launcelot,—a name
That knighthood knows not from itself.

Publius.
Hold, hold!
You gave me reason—

Galahault.
And for my own ends
I did so—

Bursa.
We are tricked.

Publius.
Not wholly. Sir,
You'll not deny that it is Launcelot,
Not Arthur, that the army loves. For him
They throw their caps up; and to follow him
They would not scruple, lead he where he may.

Galahault.
All this is true.

Publius.
They 'd follow him?

Galahault.
Doubtless.
They 'd follow him.

Publius.
You 'd follow him yourself?

Galahault.
He knows my love for him. No fault, no crime
Could make me leave him. Could he be a traitor,—
As he will not,—I'd know that it must be
From truth to a higher cause. ...

Publius.
But should that be?

Galahault.
I have said all I will.

Publius
(aside to Bursa).
Take him away;
And let him not be near the Queen.
[Exeunt Bursa and Galahault.]
You see,
You are the leader; but where'er you lead,
He means to follow. With a nice reserve
He waits your index, will not speed nor hamper
By hint nor shadow of his inner thought
The gathering of your true untold desire
Into decision,—be it what it may.
He leaves you free ... not his to watch the stars,
Nor change the helm ... but once your course is set,
That's his course, that's the course of the best half
Of Arthur's army. Where they'd shrink themselves,
With you they would not question; where they'd fear,
With you they'd dare damnations, face the unknown,
March blindly into darkness, leaving the quarrel
Of what they do and why, to you. It is
The leader, not the cause, that men believe in;
Save now and then a mind—and that's a leader.

Launcelot.
So much the more must he whom accident
Makes leader, try the honor of his deeds,
Lest he debase the mint of many hearts.

Publius.
It is is honor's name I call upon you.
I have spoken to you of power; but do not think
I hold you one of those who to be crowned
Would stoop to be unworthy of a crown ...
Yet to be king is good, if worthily ...
I have spoken to you of unfettered love;
But do not think I hold you such an one
As for his pleasure would ride down the rights
Of even the poorest peasant in the way.
Yet if a great necessity decree
We pluck out honor from a fiery shame
And pleasure follow for an overplus,
What god shall bid us put away that joy?
Joy is not in itself an evil thing,
But only to make joy our chief concern,
Usurping honor's kingship in our hearts.

Launcelot.
Where is there honor in foul treachery?

Publius.
Love hath its honor, too. Is there no treason
But to your king? Do you owe no allegiance
To her of whom the earldoms of your soul
Are held by homage? Do you owe no faith
To her whom you have put in jeopardy—
Even by your love of her—so great that now,
Even now, at mere imagination of it,
I wonder how your breath can come and go
So steadily? Can you condemn the Queen,
With this impassive face, to wrong and shame,—
Yield that proud spirit to the bitterness
Of contumely,—let the scavenger crows
Of court and camp perch upon her fair name
And pick the white bones of her murdered honor?
Why, after that the body's death were nought;
And yet that she should die in agonies,
That supreme miracle of flesh be given
To the red flames to scar and shrivel and blacken
Into a mummied horror, while the slow nerves,
Shrieking with dilatory pangs—

Launcelot.
What mean you?

Publius.
Burned at the stake,—so reads your Briton law,
For the high treason of adultery
In queens. The annals of your country tell
That Goneril, the wife of Calader,
Endured that punishment. It is the law.
You know well that King Arthur, even if he
Were judge of his own sons as Brutus was,
Holds the integrity of the ordered state
So high above the individual life
He would not flinch one comma of the law.
Burned at the stake—will he do violence
To the law, his god, to save her?

Launcelot.
He is just.

Publius.
And pitiless. He would not, though he loved her.
And will he love her, when he knows the truth?
Worse in his eyes than faithless to himself,
The insulter of his crown! ... Or will he spare her
For your sake, who betrayed him with a kiss? ...
There is a justice so implacable
Wrong is not so unjust. Will you leave her
To the mercy of that justice? Sir, her safety
Is at your will. If you betray her, what
Remains? No hope ... unless in the protection
Of Cæsar.

Launcelot.
Cæsar?

Publius.
Cæsar ... and Cæsar's love!
She is within our lines, a prisoner;
For, knowing of her coming from her letter,
The Emperor had an ambush set and seized her.
He will defend her, but he will ask payment,—
Her love ... or else your sword. What, do you still
Hesitate? If the Emperor should fall,
After the Queen were made his concubine,
And she should fall again in Arthur's hands? ...
Her beauty hath so wrought on Cæsar's eyes
That only for the great respect he bears you
And for the hope that he may win your sword
Does he delay his pleasure. Scorn our friendship,
You give her proud fame to be spat upon,
Her body to the fire ... or Cæsar's arms ...
Or both perhaps, if Arthur conquer Cæsar. ...
Are you a man, and can hear this unmoved?
I'll not believe it. I myself am stirred
Almost to tears for pity of her lot.
If you are not to passion, then, poor lady,
She is indeed forsaken. You forget,
Perhaps, the empire of her loveliness,
And time and distance have made dull your love.
But when you see her rise into your sight,
Supreme and radiant as Orion, when
The silent horror of her beauty pleads
Against her doom, then, then each word of mine
Will, like the dragon's teeth that Cadmus sowed,
Crop armed invasion in your soul and peal
Her cause with trumpets.—Ho, there! Bring forth the Queen! ...
Why, now you start. Ay, sir, the Queen is here.
I'll leave you with her. When you look on her,
Think of the fire ... and think of Cæsar's love ...
Think of the smell of burning flesh ... and then
The silken scented luxury ... the hush
Of secret dusky chambers ... and the glare
Of flame upon the faces of the crowd. ...

Enter Guenevere. Exit Publius.
Launcelot.
Guenevere!

Guenevere.
Launcelot!

Launcelot.
Thou art more beautiful even than my dreams of thee.

Guenevere.
I am more glad of thee than even my heart foreknew.

Launcelot.
Man is not God enough that his weak dreams,
Even from thy shadow in his memory,
Should mould so beautiful a world as thou.

Guenevere.
Thou standest tall between me and the sky,
Most like a spirit. Art thou real, love?

Launcelot.
As real as the gleam of thee that plays
Across the night like starlight on a pool,
Swift witchery and the dark deeps underneath.

Guenevere.
My heart is deep with calm and light with joy.

Launcelot.
Thou art a night of mystery and stars. [Pause.]


Guenevere.
I think the whole world is a song of love;
I think the whole world swims with lyric joy.

Launcelot.
Thy voice is like a still star sped across the hush.

Guenevere.
There is another voice that cools out of the night.

Launcelot.
The angel of our love ... It has been long ...
How great a mystery you seem to me
I cannot tell. You seem to have become
One with the tides and night and the unknown ...
My child ... your child ... whence come?—by what strange forge
Wrought of ourselves and dreams and the great deep
Into a life? I feel as if I stood
Where God had passed by, leaving all the place
Aflame with him.

Guenevere.
How tell the secrets of
His coming—the weird vibrance of the room,
As if the chords of ghostly violins
Thrilled into looming dreams where'er you came.
From the beginning, ere he was conceived,
The air was quick with him.

Launcelot.
The strangeness is
That I, who have not borne him, am aware,
I too, of intimacy with his soul.
It is as I were just awaked from sleep
And one should tell me of events that passed
While I was sleeping, and I knew them not;
Yet at each word confused memories
Stir somewhere deeper than the waking mind,
And I am conscious that I was a part
Of things I knew not of.

Guenevere.
He is watched over;
Where he is, one is brushed by the unseen,
And the air thickens with the hush of shadows.

Launcelot.
What will he be? My thought leaps to the future
And pictures him a thousand different ways,
But always something starred above his fellows.

Guenevere.
Oh, do not haste the heavy-footed years.
Let him live out his pudgy dimpled life—
Dear baby—without fret of what's to be.
Other lives ... boyhood, manhood ... in their turn!
I want him as he is. What will make up
For those ten little aimless fingers? Who
Will ever give me back his helplessness?

Launcelot.
His babyhood is not so real to me
As he is. You have seen him. Is he like you?

Guenevere.
He is like you.

Launcelot.
I think he is like you;
And you forget to look for it in him,
Losing remembrance of yourself in me,
I have not seen him.

Guenevere.
I may never see him ...

Launcelot.
Your face is beautiful as one who thinks
Of death, with seaward eyes.

Guenevere.
It is worth all.
I know the rapture now the martyrs had,
When this was Nero's and Domitian's Rome.
I would not yield a pang of any woe
That I have suffered, so wrought into one
The pain is with the vision and the joy,
The peace and all the wonder of your soul.

Launcelot.
We are more far off from the world of ills
Than Vega or Arcturus from our feet.
I feel as if it were some other I
That captains Arthur's army, moves, speaks, thinks,—
Some machine curiously made half alive,
Whose very feelings are mechanical.
But when what somehow seems to be indeed
I, lifts its head above the waves, I know
That all that turmoil does not rive nor jar
The bases of my soul.

[A bugle, far off, faintly.]
Guenevere.
Oh, how alone
We are, as if the stars and only we
Watched in the darkness!

[Pause.]
Launcelot.
What is it that gleams
Like a coil of wan light in your eddying hair?

Guenevere.
A silver serpent. Ylen gave it me
In Lyonesse.

Launcelot.
You used to wear a dagger.

Guenevere.
They took it from me.

Launcelot.
Oh, your hair, your hair!
It is like dark water in a little light. ...
Oh, your beautiful hair, Guenevere!
I let my fingers drown in it ... Oh,
I let my soul drown in it, Guenevere.

[A noise without, as of a shield that clangs falling to the ground.]
Guenevere.
Oh, what was that?

Launcelot.
A soldier's shield that fell.

Guenevere.
I thought it was a summons to my soul.

Launcelot.
The whole night seems unearthly and remote,
And every common thing a prodigy.

Guenevere.
The earth and air are tense and augural,
And tremulous with the unseen. I think
It is our souls that thus compel the night.

Launcelot.
Oh, your beautiful hands, Guenevere!
They are like moonlight lying on my arm.

[Kisses her hands; and then her cheek and throat, passionately. A wind rises, and stirs gustily in the trees.]
Guenevere.
Oh, the wind, the wind! It blows against my face
As if the night were waking.

Launcelot.
Look at me!
I want to look deep down into your eyes.
I want to find your soul down in your eyes.
I want to find your kisses in your soul.

Guenevere.
Oh, you are like the passion of the morning
When all the kissed earth wakens into life.

Launcelot.
I worship you, I worship you, I worship you,—
As a saint worships heaven I worship you;
You ray the darkness like the starry heaven,
And like the raptured woods I worship you ...

Guenevere.
No ... somewhere deeper than all me and thee ...

Launcelot.
Oh, your beautiful soul, Guenevere! ...

Varro
(without).
Sir Launcelot!

Guenevere.
Who calls!

Launcelot.
Ha! It is Varro's voice.

Enter Varro.
Varro.
The morning wind arises and the east
Is faintly gray. My duty that you be
Safely within your lines before the dawn
Narrows the time. When will it please you start?

Launcelot.
Why, now. [Exit Varro].
There is no time but is both well
And ill.

[Kisses her; then detaches his dagger and passes it to her silently. She conceals it.]
Enter Publius; and Varro, Bursa, Galahault, and Soldiers in the background. A pause.
Publius.
Well, are you friends with Cæsar?

Launcelot.
No.

Curtain.

ACT V.

Scene. Rome. A Room in Guenevere's Apartment in the Palace of Lucius. Large window-doors at back, open. Balcony beyond, overlooking the gardens, and the streets of Rome. Voconius and Voconia, meeting.
Voconius.
Is the Queen stirring yet?

Voconia.
She is at breakfast.
I came here, as you ordered. Tell me why
You yield your former plans so suddenly—
How comes it that you give commands in the palace?—
What has happened that 't is Guenevere, not I,
You scheme for Cæsar now? ...

Voconius.
The Emperor
Will be here in a moment. Let the Queen
Know he is coming... Oh, Voconia,
Our fortunes are at the top. Publius and Bursa
Have fallen, they have fallen, they are overthrown,
And I am nearest Cæsar! ...

Voconia.
What has happened?

Voconius.
It seems they blundered in some enterprise
To win Sir Launcelot to us ... Cæsar is furious. ...
He has thrown Publius into a dungeon—
And Galahault—Bursa has not returned
To the palace yet. ...

Voconia.
Galahault?

Voconius.
Galahault, too;
He did not say what was expected of him.
Cæsar would scourge the soldiers that went with them,
Pillory the pikes, so bitter is his rage.

Voconia.
Let Galahault be released.

Voconius.
Still in that tune? ...
Why, if you will ... my power will reach that far—
Not were it Publius—and since it thwarts
Success no longer, love him if you like—
Love twenty, love the army! Only stay
With Guenevere, report her thoughts to me,
And, as you may, incline her thoughts to Cæsar.
Enter Lucius.
Go, tell her that the Emperor is here.

[Exit Voconia.]
Lucius.
What says she?

Voconius.
That she finds the Queen is calm,
Does not avoid your name, but speaks of you
With courtesy, if not with tenderness.
Believe me, she'll do much.

Lucius.
Why, that is good.

Voconius.
But asks her price.

Lucius.
They all do that. What is it?

Voconius.
That which I think you will not wish to grant,
But yet may grant without too great a loss,—
The release of Galahault.

Lucius.
No, by the empire!

Voconius.
Remember he is not as Publius,
A fruitless servant, but an open foe—
To be watched, guarded, spied on, not to be punished.
Consider, too, 't were well Voconia
Should be your debtor ... True, we may command her;
You are her emperor, I am her brother,
Head of her house; but you'd have service of her
That's not to be compelled. She is in love
With Galahault; her gratitude and joy
Will bind her to your cause.

Lucius.
Let him go free;
[Voconius sits at table and writes.]
Enter Voconia.
But I'll have double vengeance on the others.

Voconius.
Your signature. [Lucius signs the release.]


Voconia.
The Queen regrets she must
Beg Cæsar to attend a little while.

Voconius.
This will release Sir Galahault. See you to it.

[Exit Voconia.]
Lucius.
I'll find some way to make them plead to purpose.
Bursa, whom I have—
Enter a Messenger.
Well! What is it? Speak!
Is your news pepper? Does it strangle you?

Messenger.
Most mighty—

Lucius.
Well, well, lobster!

Messenger.
The enemy
Storms the Flaminian Gate.

Lucius.
What! Where's Bursa?

Messenger.
Gone to the walls, to captain the defence.

[Exit, upon a gesture from Lucius.]
Lucius.
Why do they strike to-day? Fools! ... I have need
Of Bursa; that must be deferred. Voconius,—

Voconius.
Cæsar!

Lucius.
Publius is imprisoned in the crypt?

Voconius.
Ay, Cæsar.

Lucius.
He will not sleep well there.

Voconius.
Truly, the flags are hard.

Lucius.
And cold. I'd have him sleep.
The old man has not closed his eyes all night.
See that he sleeps soon.

Voconius.
He shall sleep sound, my lord.

Lucius.
See to it now ... Where is my secretary?

Voconius.
I have a slave attends me here in the gallery,
That has great skill in writing.

Lucius.
Bring him with you
When you return. Be quickly here again. ...
[Exit Voconius.]
Enter Metella.
He was grown irksome, and his grip on the empire
Was too tentacular.

Metella.
Cæsar!

Lucius.
Well, it is done;
Let him teach Lucifer diplomacy ...

Metella.
Cæsar ...

Lucius.
Well done, I doubt. ...

Metella.
There was a time
I had no need to call on Cæsar thrice.
Have I grown husky, that my voice no more
Bells clear across the thicket of your moods?

Lucius.
You have a sweet voice, madam.

Metella.
Cæsar! ...

Lucius.
Tears!—
How difficult it is to deal with women!—
Why, you are beautiful, and you are clever,
And you are charming, madam. Who denies it?

Metella.
Oh, deny it a thousand times—and kiss me!

Lucius.
There!

Metella.
No! I am not so facile, Lucius.

Lucius.
That 's well done, too. (Aside.)
If my thoughts had the time,
A look like that would halt them. She's a fine woman. ...
Enter Voconius and Dagonet.
Is this your scribe?

Voconius.
Ay, Cæsar.

Lucius.
Let him wait
Within call. I've a paper presently
I would have copied quickly. A word with you.
Your pardon, madam ...

Dagonet.

Caught at last! Oh for a cap to make me invisible! (Looking out at balcony.)
Or even an every-day ladder; I am a two-legged animal, but without feathers; it's too high for a wingless fowl.

[Withdraws upon balcony.]
Lucius
(apart to Voconius).

That's done, then. ... You are a handsome man, Voconius.

Voconius.
Cæsar knows not to flatter, otherwise—

Lucius.
See you Metella yonder? ... How her neck
Curves like an angry swan's!

Voconius.
A lovely cloud,—
Rainbowed and opal-smouldering.

Lucius.
Is she not
A prize for princes?

Voconius.
I envy you, my lord.

Lucius.
Oh, fear no jealousy from me, Voconius.
Take her, if you can win her. ... Pardon us, madam.
Cæsar is more a slave than all his slaves;
His tyrant is the State. What news, Voconius?
How goes the battle at the barrier?

Voconius.
Like two strong wrestlers locked in a mad grip
That budge not though their bones cry,—like the sea
That breaks unyielding on the unyielding cliff!
The messengers come momently, but bring
No news of change. Bursa would have you forth
Thinking your presence may inspire the troops.

Lucius.
I will put on my armor presently.

[Looks off at balcony.]
Metella.
It must be a brave sight.

Voconius.
Would you look on?
I can convey you to a place of vantage
Whence you may see all and yet be as safe
As at the theatre. It will be rare.

Metella.
I am not in the mood.

Voconius.
Oh, madam, come.
It will divert you—at the least, it may be
Some pleasure to you that 't is much to me.

Metella.
Why, you may go.

Voconius.
Oh, madam, I but go
To pick the crumbs up of your scattered glances.

Metella.
Speak low, lest Cæsar hear.

Voconius.
A fig for Cæsar!

Metella.
Why, that's a man. Well then, I'll go with you.

[Exeunt Metella and Voconius.]
Lucius.
Ho, there! Attend me. ...
Enter two Attendants.
She is beautiful.
I wonder why she does not stir me now. ...
Go, bid my armor-bearer have my harness
In readiness ...
[Exit an Attendant. A little later in the scene he re-enters unobtrusively.]
Upon my soul, this Queen
Treats me right queenly. Will she never come? ...
Enter Guenevere.
You give me hopes. No maiden e'er drew out
The fever of her lover's waiting longer
While she, in tremor half and half in craft,
Played witchery with her glass. You give me hopes.

Guenevere.
The mirror of a woman is the eyes
Of all the world—including emperors.

Lucius.
Why, every eye must be your mirror—true—
For all eyes turn to you where'er you go.
But some are dull—a fool's thought cannot glass you;
And some are flawed—a wry heart would distort you;
And many are of too base metal made
To hang in your bedchamber.

Guenevere.
Rather than hang
Base metal there, though with the empire gilded,
Lucretia's steel should serve.

Lucius.
Death of my life!
Base metal, madam!

Guenevere.
Counterfeit—it passes.

Lucius.
Provoke me not to leave all generous thoughts.

Guenevere.
Spare me your generosity. You make
A merchandise of magnanimity.

Lucius.
Remember, madam, you are in my power.

Guenevere.
O generous, to make me think of it!

Lucius.
Oh, how the ugly lines of scorn grow fair
When 't is your face that wears them! Ah, you make
A grace of things ungracious! You shall yet
Smooth out the wrinkle of that lithe contempt
To something gentler. You shall crook that pride,
And humble that disdain. Know you this letter? ...
It seems you do not. Let me hold it nearer. ...

Guenevere.
That! ... oh! ...

Lucius.
Bid me tear it ...

Guenevere.
Fool! fool! fool!
I knew it when I wrote it. What fiend, then,
Usurped my soul to send it? Oh, what drug,
What basilisk, what Gorgon sorceried
My judgment into stone? Are we the sport
Of something in ourselves that makes our wills
Pygmies that stand on mountain-tops and brag?
Oh! ...

Lucius.
Bid me tear it! ...

Guenevere.
I have nought to do
With what you do or do not.

Lucius.
Drive me not
To be a tyrant where I would be kind.
Give me your hand and seal we amity
With the ashes of this telltale.

Guenevere.
You are slow
To understand.

Lucius.
Methinks I know you better
Than you had thought. Put off this vestal role;
I know you no Lucretia,—ts! one more
Or less—what matter?

Guenevere
(after an angry pause).
What one matters all ...
How should you understand me? I have done.

Lucius.
I have not. If you stand on faithfulness,
I'll hold you to it: this belongs to him, then,
You are bound-to to be faithful ... Do you take me?
I speak of Arthur. Shall I send you to him
And ticket you with this? ... I do not jest.
By God's blood, I will send you to his camp
And bid my herald cry your shame at large.
God's mercy, madam, you are no such saint
To be so liberal of scorn! ... No speech?
You will break silence when you see the copy
Made ready to be sent—oh, I keep this;
But all may see it ... Once more, bid me delay ...
Ho, there, you writing fellow!
Enter Dagonet.
Copy this.

Dagonet
(aside).
Copy it? Oh, Lord!

Lucius.
Will you take it, knave?

Dagonet.
Ay, Cæsar, ay, ay,—but my quills are split.

Lucius.
Fetch what he needs.
[Attendants fetch writing materials.]
It is not yet too late ...
Here, rascal, take it. Well, what lack you now?

Dagonet.
Tinder to light the taper for the wax.

Lucius.
Serve him ... Madam, the time grows lean apace.
You were not made for rigor. Your lush South
Of beauty's not for winter ... Take it ...

[Dagonet takes letter, Lucius turns again to Guenevere.]
Dagonet
(recognizing the letter).
Whoop!

[Lights it with taper.]
Lucius.
Be kind and bid me burn it.

[Follows Guenevere's startled look and sees Dagonet with the burning letter.]
Lucius.
What! Thou—Who? ...

Dagonet.
Your only juggler, sire. Do you remember? ...

[Kneels and kisses Guenevere's hand.]
Lucius.
Guards, ho! Hell-fire and brimstone! Guards! ...

Enter a Messenger, precipitately.
Messenger.
My lord,
The enemy have burst the gates.

Lucius.
What sayest thou?

Messenger.
The walls are carried and the battle wages
Along the streets. Bursa—

Lucius.
My armor, ho!

Guenevere.
This way, with me.

[Exeunt Guenevere and Dagonet.]
Lucius.
Where is the fighting? Come!
Conduct me ... Seize that fellow! Gone? Damnation!
Find him, and hang him! ... What's the way? my armor! ...

[Exeunt all severally. Pause. Noises without.]
Enter Voconia and Galahault.
Voconia.
I asked for life, but did not know how great
And wonderful life was.

Galahault.
I thought that life
Was ended, and the rest mere dragging out
The dead accustomed days.

Voconia.
I know so little,
And you so much. How can you love me?

Galahault.
Oh,
You bring me what I thought I had lost forever,
Youth of the soul. I live in you again,
And re-discover all things. [Kisses her.]


Voconia.
Kiss me again ... [A pause.]


Galahault.
What noise is that! I hear the clash of arms. [They run to the open window-doors.]


Voconia.
Oh, oh, oh! They are battering the gates!

Galahault.
They storm the palace! God, to be cooped up here!

Voconia.
But with me, love ...

Galahault.
You are my new life—look!
You would not have me less a soldier. Heavens!
Look, look, I say.

[The noises increase.]
Voconia.
They are bursting the gates in ...

Galahault.
And I not there! Oh, some way to escape! ...

Voconia.
The gates give way! ... Ah! ... Ah! ... Ah! Who is he
With the yellow hair, that lifts the gates and hurls them
Like rotten wood? ...

Galahault.
Launcelot! Launcelot! ...

Voconia.
Oh, it is glorious! ...

Galahault.
How escape? ... How join them? ...

Voconia.
You have no arms.

Galahault.
The dead shall give me arms.

Voconia.
Look, look again! ... Ah! ... Oh, horrible! ...
See, Bursa comes now ... Ah, look, Launcelot—

Galahault.
They are but a handful that have dashed ahead ...
They will be overcome—

Voconia.
Not he! He fights
As if some madness hurled him.

Galahault.
Help me reach him.
You know the palace. Is there no way to descend
But through the Romans?

Voconia.
Follow me. This way.

[Exeunt into the inner rooms of Guenevere. Uproar in garden, and on staircase, bursting finally into the apartment.]
Enter several fighting. Then Bursa and Launcelot in hand to hand struggle, with battle-axes. Cries, tumult. The Romans increase in numbers and drive out the Britons. Launcelot is wounded. He reels back a moment, then returns to the combat, and Bursa is slain.
Romans
(dispersedly).

Seize him! ... Take him prisoner! ... He is alone. It is Launcelot ...

[They rush upon Launcelot in a body, but stagger back under the blows of his battle-axe and huddle together at the door-way, ready to escape. Several are wounded and one slain. As they stand, wavering, in the door, Launcelot, growing weak from the bleeding of his wound, lets fall his arm to his side, dropping his battle-axe, and then half falls to the floor.]
A Roman.
He is wounded. Quick, a surgeon!
Let us take him alive. It is their general.

[Exeunt several.]
Launcelot
(aside, faintly).
Where is she? ...

Another Roman.
Yield you, rescue or no rescue.

Third Roman.
Your men are beaten back.

First Roman.
You are left alone.

[Launcelot faints.]
Those who had gone out re-enter with a Surgeon.
Surgeon.
He is faint from loss of blood. Quick, bring me wine.

First Roman.
Cæsar should know. Who'll go and seek out Cæsar?

[Exeunt several. The Surgeon dresses the wound, and applies bandages, with tourniquet knot to stop bleeding.]
Second Roman.
We shall all be centurions. Capture Launcelot! ... [Wine is brought.]


Surgeon.
He is coming to.

[Launcelot sits up partly and the Surgeon gives him wine to drink.]
Enter Lucius, in armor, and Soldiers.
Lucius.
Where is he? ... Bind him fast.

Surgeon.
He is too weak to struggle.

Lucius.
Bind him fast! ...
[Launcelot is bound.]
Give him more wine to drink. I'd have him roused
Enough to speak with me.

Surgeon.
He is still dazed.
[Launcelot drinks.]
He must be quiet lest he bleed afresh ...
[Holding his pulse.]
He is better now.

Launcelot.
Bound?

Lucius.
Clear this dirt away.
Leave us alone.
[Exeunt Soldiers, bearing the dead bodies.]
So, so, Sir Launcelot!
What though your soldiers riot in my streets?
We've not done yet.

Enter Varro.
Varro.
All's lost. The city's theirs.

Lucius.
No! ... No! ... No! ...

Varro.
Our men scatter like rats.
All 's vain to rally them.

Lucius.
The city lost?
Deny it, man, deny it. Oh! the world melts
Out of my hands like snow. No, all's not lost!
Cowards, you leave me—you betray me—Ah!—
I had no Launcelots!

Varro.
Be it so, you wrong us.
We have fought well. They sweep the streets like hail.
King Arthur, like an Ajax come again,—
I think he is a god,—I cannot kill him!
Thrice have I fought with him, and thrice—... All's lost!
Remains but to secure your flight, my lord.

Lucius.
Where shall I flee to? For the world is his. ...
[To the Surgeon.]
Open this vein for me ... An easy death;
I have considered it, Varro. [Suddenly and infuriate

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117

his eye falling Launcelot.]
No, not that way!
Vengeance! We will have vengeance in our ruin!
Draw up your soldiers at the garden walls
And rampart me with death. I shall be there.

[Exeunt Varro and Surgeon.]
[Guenevere appears at the door of the inner rooms. Seeing first Lucius, and then Launcelot, she stops, silent. Lucius breaks into an hysterical laugh, and starts sinuously, and with malign intention, toward her. Launcelot strains at the cords that bind him. Guenevere motionless till Lucius has passed Launcelot, who at that moment with a violent effort bursts the cords. As Guenevere turns to Launcelot, Lucius with a quick movement snatches the dagger from her and flings it on the floor.]
Lucius.
Madam, he's bound ... and wounded.

[Launcelot springs upon Lucius and grapples with him.]
Launcelot.
Roman beast!

[They wrestle towards the balcony.]
Lucius.
Ugh! Ugh! ... Ah! ... Help! ...
Ho! ... Aee! ... aee! ... aee! ...

[As they reach the doors, Launcelot lifts Lucius bodily and rushing out upon the balcony, with the strength of fury, hurls him

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118

down upon the paved court below. A cry of terror, like the cry of a wild beast, from Lucius as he disappears.]
Launcelot.
Rot there! I would 't were in our Norland woods
For the lean wolves to rend thee!

Guenevere.
Is he slain?
Moves he? Oh—

Launcelot.
He will never move again.
[Groans of dismay from the garden. Then outcries. Confusion.]
Ho! ... Ho! ... you Romans ...
There lies your Cæsar—such a senseless lump
His very dogs insult him! Yield you, knaves!
Now comes an Emperor that is to that
As morning to the foul glow of the Pit!
Yield you! Now come the old heroic days
When Rome was Rome and ruled by right divine
Of valor and devotion. Rejoice, cry out,
Shout “Arthur! Arthur! There's a Cæsar indeed—
Greater than the great Julius—who shall found
An empire greater still!” ... Throw ope the gates,
Rush out, and make your peace.
[Turns to Guenevere. Tumult without, then quiet. Guenevere stretches out her hands and comes towards him, breaking into overflow of joyous silvery laughter. She stops at the steps that rise to the doors opening

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119

on the balcony and he comes down to her, laughing too, for sheer joy. As he reaches her at the steps he reels, weak with loss of blood, and falls.]
My wound! I am spent.
Tie up this knot again. ... Undo my armor. ...

[She takes off his helmet and corselet, and re-dresses the wound deftly and quickly.]
Guenevere.
So wounded, Launcelot, ... and to outthew
The scarce-breathed Lucius!

Launcelot.
It is but a slash.
The bleeding makes me weak. But oh! oh! oh!
The victory, the victory, Guenevere! ...
Since last night it is thrice a thousand years,
And every year a hell.

Guenevere.
A Lapland night,

Launcelot.
Ne'er morning dawned so slow.

Guenevere.
But now, but now—!

Launcelot.
Now we are past all ills. ... And I could thank
Some truculent Roman if he brake in on us
And slew us ere they come. Ay, to cease thus,
Together, at the height!

Guenevere.
No, not to cease,
But to be thus, forever!

Launcelot.
Ah, to know
You are no longer in that tiger's clutch,
I—I—ha, ha, ha, ha!

Guenevere.
Speak not of him,—
A fool that met a fool's fate. ... Hear the bells! ...
[Chimes of bells begin to ring all over the city; at first, those faint and far away, then nearer and louder.]
How like a fleet of shining pinnaces
They sail upon the air. ... Hark! clear and sweet! ...
It is our bridal that they ring, and we
Are wed anew to-day.

Launcelot.
Nearer and nearer
They swell with joy. They ease my heart of joy.

Guenevere.
Oh, I think they are alive! I think
They are glad with our gladness! They rejoice
That life is fair and that the sun is sweet
And all the little winds are soft with joy. ...
How they peal forth! ...

Launcelot.
Victory! Guenevere!
It is the churches ringing the Te Deum!
Rome hails her victor—and her emperor!

[Shouts and noises in the garden.]
Guenevere.
Hear them cry out!

Launcelot.
Is it their men or ours? [A pause.]


Guenevere.
Launcelot!

Launcelot.
Guenevere!

Guenevere.
Hark! ...

Launcelot.
They are on the stair.

[A pause.]
Guenevere.
There 's some one at the door. ...

Enter Arthur. A pause.
Arthur.
Ho, are you here? ...
Lady, you are the Empress of the world
To-day. What, wounded, Launcelot? Not badly?

Launcelot.
'T is nothing, Arthur.

Arthur.
God 's my life, 't is much,
For you are pale with it. But it becomes you.
Crowns are not won with kisses. ... Well, we've won ...
There 's salve for all our cuts—eh, Launcelot?

Enter Lionel, Dinadan, Galahault, and Knights.
Dinadan.
Ho, ho! a prize! we have taken our own general.
We found Sir Galahault in the streets, half-armed,
Fighting as a starved man falls to victuals. Mass,
[Thumping him on the back.]
I think he's only twenty.

Galahault
(to Guenevere).
Where is Voconia?

Guenevere.
Yonder.
[Exit Galahault.]
He has taken Rome the happiest way.

Arthur.
What, by her maidens? That's a knight's part, too.

Lionel.
The city's mad with joy. Our partisans
Build bonfires in the streets, and our late foes
Forget their enmity and cry as loud
As our own men for Arthur. “Peace” is the shout;
The frenzy spreads like a contagion.

Dinadan.
Yes,
They'll all be drunk by night, Pagan or Christian.

Enter Bors, Ector, and others, with Varro.
Launcelot.
Varro? ... Arthur, this Roman is my friend.

Arthur.
Let him go free. (To Varro.)
I crave you for my service. ...

Bors.
The people throng the churches, where they sing
Te Deums for your victory.

Ector.
We passed
Bands of monks chanting in the squares.

Bors.
They say
The Pope himself comes hither with his blessing.

Re-enter Galahault, with Voconia, and Dagonet in an improvised costume. Laughter at Dagonet's entrance.
Dagonet.

You laugh, masters. But this is the badge of a free man. I have put off slavery with my Roman clothes. These are the spoils of war. I have looted the ladies' apartments. My cap was a work-basket; my bauble a distaff and a doll's head, artistically united. I despoiled the female slaves of them. My doublet is patched together of ladies' mantles, and my hose—oh, la, la!

Guenevere.
Tut, tut! You are a silly Fool. Go to!

Arthur.
We must soon turn our steps again to Britain;
And one of you must rule for us in Rome.
Who should this be but he whose arm was chief
To throne us here? You all do know the love
I bear him ... but you shall confess me just
When I name Launcelot.

[Cheers.]
Launcelot.
Oh, not me, my King!

[A pause. Chanting without, in the garden.]
Arthur.
You shall be honored only as you please
And name your own prize.

Launcelot.
This is my prize, Arthur—
To see you here in triumph.

Arthur.
That 's well said.
I understand you. It is nobly felt.
We stay together, then. ... Well, Galahault,
You are half Roman, as it seems, already,—
What is the throng that breaks upon us here?

[The scene crowds with spectators, Romans and Britons. The chanting of the monks draws nearer in the corridor.]
Monks
(without).
Salvum fac populum tuum, Domine et benedic hæreditati tuæ
Et rege eos, et extolle illos usque in æternum.
Per singulos dies benedicimus te.
Et laudamus nomen tuum in sæculum et in sæculum sæculi,
Dignare, Domine, die isto sine peccato nos custodire.
Enter a procession of monks, in white cowls,

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124

chanting; then acolytes, and the Pope, in a cope of cloth of gold, with the tiara on his head.
Miserere nostri, Domine miserere nostri,
Fiat misericordia tua, Domine, super nos quemadmodum speravimus in te.
In te, Domine, speravi non confundar in æternum.

[As they cease chanting, the Pope raises his hands in benediction. All kneel.]
The Pope.
God's blessing lie upon you, Christian knights,
And upon thee, my son, deliverer
Of his church and his people. ... King of Britain,
Be thou God's holy Emperor of Rome.
Behold the Iron Crown! I, being God's vicar
Over the church, crown thee to be his vicar
Over the world. ... Behold your Cæsar, Rome!

Launcelot
(rising).
Long live the Emperor!

All
(rising).
Long live the Emperor!

Arthur
(Setting the crown, for an instant, upon Guenevere's head).
Long live the Empress!

All.
Ho! Long live the Empress!

Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
Letters, my lord, from Merlin. ... This for the queen.

[He delivers the letters, which Arthur and Guenevere, severally, open and scan.]
Guenevere
(apart to Launcelot).
All's well with him.

Curtain.

4. IV. TALIESIN

A MASQUE

PERSONS.

• Taliesin, a Bard.
• Percival, Knight of the Round Table.
• The Spirit of Merlin.
• Nimue, the Lady of the Lake.
• Voices of the Wood.
• Apollo.
• Hermes.
• The Nine Muses.
• Three Damsels.
• The Child, afterward THE Youth.
• King Evelac.
• The Choristers of the Chapel of the Graal.
• The Seven Angels who see God continually.

Scene.

First Movement.—The Forest of Broceliande.

Second Movement.—Helicon.

Third Movement.—The Chapel of the Graal.

FIRST MOVEMENT.

The Forest of Broceliande. Taliesin lies asleep under the thick-leaved trees, a harp by his side. The voices of unseen Spirits are heard, singing.
Voices.

[The branches are pressed apart, and the young knight, Sir Percival, pushes his way through them.
Percival.
No path, no beacon of directing stars,
No outlet from perpetual wandering!
Three days have I sought vainly through this wood;
And yet I fear to sleep. The heavy air
Enwraps me with a drowsiness so strange
I dare not yield to it.—What youth is this?
A minstrel, by his harp. Alas, he sleeps
As if he ne'er would wake again. Soho!
Awake! lest you should sleep into your death.

Taliesin
(awaking).
Dreams, but I fain would know wherefore we dream.

Percival.
Shake off your slumber now and answer me.
I am Sir Percival, three days ago
Made Knight of the Round Table. Who art thou?

Taliesin.
I was the bard at Elphin's court, whose realm
The encroaching sea o'erthrew. And now I go
To seek the halls of Arthur, for a bard
Must live at courts, and where the life of men
Is densest and the struggle is most fierce.

Percival.
Men speak at Camelot of Taliesin,
And call him the new Merlin. Ay, the King
Himself has spoken of you, and I know
That you will be right welcome. But how comes it
That you are here so far from the right way?

Taliesin.
This is the mystic wood where Merlin lies
In his enchanted sleep. My master he,
And of him I seek counsel.

Percival.
And I too.
Three days have I sought for him in this wood,
And seen no living thing, nor heard no sound
But murmurs that entice me to a sleep
Wherefrom I shrink. I took this quest upon me,
Being heartsore with the scandals of the court.

Taliesin.
Scandals, at the court of the blameless King?

Percival.
Sir, I perceive you know us as we seem,
Not as we are. And for the King himself,
Save rumors of strange sins wrought long ago,
I know no charge against him. But his court,
Even the high order of the Table Round,
That was for an ensample edified
Of manhood at its highest, holiest reach,—
It has become a house of infamy.
Ere I was made a knight, the sin I saw
Made the light harsh and the air stifling to me;
And then I vowed that my first knightly quest
Should be to find some rescue from the sin.

Voices.

Taliesin.
Again—the slumber gains upon my eyes
As gently as night rises on the hills.

Percival.
Arouse you! Hither came we not to sleep;
And to my ears these voices, like the scent
Of poisonous orient flowers, albeit sweet,
Are heavy with the drowsiness of death.

Taliesin.
Death hath no terrors if he come like this,
Fondling the soul to sleep with lingering touch.

Percival.
No sleep for us, on whom the weight is laid
Of many labors. Yet what way to turn
Or by what art or speech or master deed
To find the Seer where he lies entranced
That know I not.

Taliesin
(seizing his harp).
[He touches the strings of his harp, and at the sound the other murmurs are still. He sings:

Voices.
We are ware of a will
Cries “Peace, be still!”
And our waters cease
To a troubled peace.

Taliesin.

Voices.
As the dawn awaits
The recoiling gates
Of the eastern air,
We are calm and hear.

Taliesin.

[A diffused light appears in the background. It gathers and defines to a luminous sphere.
Voices.
He hath spoken our names;
And we yield as flames
That are wild or still
At the wind's will.

[The forms of Merlin and Nimue gradually become visible in the light.
Nimue.

Taliesin.
Wakest thou, then, O Merlin?

Merlin.
Nay, I sleep.

Taliesin.
And yet thou hearest?

Merlin.
I hear thee in my dream.
Who art thou?

Taliesin.
One that ere thou knewest sleep,
Chose thee for master; for I heard the hills
Reverb thy music, and the druid trees
Speak with thy voice and take thy thought upon them.
And still I hearten mine own song with thine,
And on the lonely crags repeat thy runes
And fill my lungs with thunders. But to me
Speak thou not yet. I am but as my harp
Whereon a Hand makes music; thou, the last
Of the antique wholeness and heroic height,
Bard, ruler, prophet, like the sacred oak,
With stir of lyric rumor in thy leaves,
Shadowest the mysteries of the hidden gods.
Give answer first to him that comes with me,
Who seeks to rule his deeds; then to my cry,
Who am the horn blown on his battlefield.

Merlin.
The horn blown is a deed. I know thee now
And him that comes with thee. (To Percival.)
Brave-hearted boy,
Though not for thee to know the mysteries,
Be of good heart; thou also shalt attain.
Thou shalt behold the ripe fruit on the tree,
Though the earth send its riches through the sap
Without thy ken; and thy right hand shall guard
The fruit from evil, and thy lips shall taste
Its savor. From this place the earth-goddess,
Even Nimue, whom thou beholdest here,
Shall bear thee to a castle far away
Where the Graal-lord, King Evelac, abides;
A marvel shall be shown thee there, and all,
Lawful to speak, be told thee.

Percival.
Must I leave
My comrade then?

Merlin.
Heed not; but, forasmuch
As thou mayest not behold the secrets shown
To thy companion, sleep. When thou awakest,
Thou shalt be with him and the ancient King.

Percival.
Nay, nay, I will not sleep.

Merlin.
Thou must. (To Taliesin.)
For thee,
Dear son, thou shalt not be as I. I am
As I desired, but thy desire shall be
Other, and thou shalt go from hence to win
From brighter powers intenser wakefulness,
While I sink back to deeper sleep. But first,
Ere from the wood thou pass, thou shalt behold,
Unclad alone to lyric eyes, the heart
Of Broceliande, the Lady of the wood,
The goddess of the silent stir of life,
Nimue, in star-blinding nakedness.

Percival.
Thou wilt not do this thing.

Taliesin.
Thy dream for thee;
But for me other stars and white desires.
Great master, rest; and all thy will be thine.

Merlin.
I go again to the great deep. Farewell!

[The form of Merlin fades away out of the circle of light.
Nimue
(to Percival).
Wilt thou resist? Behold, if I stretch but my hand
Like a gleam of the northlights against thee, thou yieldest. The calm
Of the cool earth rises about thee, and over thy heart
Shoots lacework of frost,—crystal lightnings that thicken and knit
To a corselet of silence: Ice-bound, wilt thou strive, wilt thou wake?
[Percival sleeps.
Sleep; not for the eyes that contemn me, I draw from its sheath
The white sword of my beauty. Sleep; ay, lest thou wake and it smite
And cleave thee with madness.

Taliesin.
Goddess swift and fierce!
I know the trail that in dim woods at eve
Hangs like a mist and makes each stir of air
Accord in music. I have caught and lost
The memory of thy passing in thrilled skies,
Or where waves crumble their thin edges down
In laughter of shifting line. But never day
So bugling, never night so druid-sweet
That the elusive secret spoke itself,
The lamp whose radiance or reflection washed
The world in charm, blazed evident in pearl.

Nimue.
I have known thee, my lover, my bard. I have lurked in the leaves
And allured thee with rumors, and fled, and beguiled thee to follow,
Till I sank in the maze and escaped thee and laughed through my hair.

Taliesin.
Thou crafty, thou elusive, undivined!
Laugh once again, O queen, with lyric throat
And witchcraft of escape in wildwood eyes!
—Nay, this time mock me not; though equal charm
Abide in thee evasive in the glen
Or in this arctic splendor palpable!
Remain, remain; and from thy holy light,
Oh, cast the pale electric mantle off;
My eyes will dare the sun.

Nimue.
On thy head the event!
Be thou weak to sustain the intolerable avatar,
Thou shalt flee from this forest accursed; from this day at thy heart
Like a vulture the rage of that beauty shall ravin for food
And consume thee for failure to find it. But master thy soul
And be strong to command in the blaze of the vision thy song,
And my power shall be thine and the word of my magic to men.
Achieve the ordeal, through me shalt thou seek other gods,
And their light be upon thee.

Taliesin.
Reveal thyself.

Nimue.
See, at thy peril.

[Nimue throws back from her shoulders her mantle, revealing herself in softer garments of a roseate yellow; these, with an almost imperceptible slowness, seem first to melt away into draperies of light, which vanish in turn save for shreds of luminous mist that linger a little and then disappear completely, leaving the goddess manifest in her beauty. All the while Taliesin, standing by the entranced body of his companion, sings to a strange accompaniment on his harp.
Taliesin.

[He steps forward into the circle of light and kisses her. The light vanishes instantly, and the scene is plunged into darkness.

SECOND MOVEMENT.

The Slopes of Helicon. Nimue and Taliesin.
Nimue.
No further alone will the dream-mighty magic prevail
Of the lightnings that lurk in my girdle. Do thou too put forth
The flash of thy will and the jar of thy striving, and climb.
Though I leave thee, I do not forsake thee.

Taliesin.
Nay, leave me not!
Thy kiss throbs through me yet. My brain is like
The beat of aching music, rhythmical,
But groaning to be free. ... Oh, I grow faint!
The glow in me, like moonlight seen through clouds,
Pales!

Nimue.
They to whom I bear children, the birth-throes feel
In spirit and brain, though I, the immortal, impassive,
Suffer only, indwelling the dark of their being, in them.
Lo, the earth is my womb, and the air is the door of my womb,
And the domed sky is big with the births of my teeming. Be calm.

[Floating in the air between the two appears a strange, elf-like Child. It is uncouth and hairy, and like a being of the woods, but there is yet a wild, unhuman charm in its look and smile.
Taliesin.
Mine! Mine!
Dragon-fly darting
Hither and thither,—
Blue smoke of wings;
Bee buzzing movelessly
Over a blue-bell;
Cloud in the sun,
Clad with a gleam
Glad as the clay-red
Blaring of battle-horns!
Mine, thou art mine!
I demand thee!

Child.
I am a hedgehog;
I am a burr;
'Ware prickles! Touch me not!
Krr! krr! krr!

Taliesin.
Fairy or child;
Elfin or human;
Light on the tarn,
Escaping the hollow hand,
Scooped in the water,
Eluding, alluring,—
How shall I seize thee?

Child.
I'll dare you like a dare-dog;
I'll haunt you like a witch;
I'll lead you like a tanglefoot,
And leave you in the ditch.

Taliesin.
Only one lure,
Only one call for a lure!
Hear! hear!
Dark in the heart of the deep,
Far in the speed of the stars,—
Throb, throb,—
Rune of the spheres!

Child.
Bells in the blue sky,
Birds sing in June;
I am a stickleback,—
Tickle me with tune.

Taliesin.
Under the moss,
Under the dream of the moss!
Near, near!
Dark in the sleep of the grass!
Chime in the rumor of Time!
Beat, beat,—
Croon of the years!

Child.
Cricket in the grass cries;
Bees buzz, buzz;
I am a thistle-bloom,—
Take me by the fuzz.

Taliesin.
Little ones know,
Little ones know without knowing,
(Dear, dear!)
Dark in the guess of their hearts!
Joy, my little one, joy!
Leap, leap,
To the tune of the world.

[The Child settles in Taliesin's arms.
Child.
Grasshopper jumping
In the early morning dew!
Teach me how to dance so
And I'll play with you.

Enter above, at the top of a steep ascent, three Damsels, having their garments curiously embroidered, one with bells, another with precious stones and metals, the third with flowers. They come, dancing.
The Damsels.

Taliesin
(playfully).
Joy for my joy, and flowers for my flower!
I'll have them, though I climb for 't.

[Begins lightly to climb the slope.
Nimue.
Fare thee well!

[Disappears.
Child.
Up we go, long legs,
Up to the top!
When we get there, will
The blue sky drop?

Damsels.
Bring the boy to us. Look, this tree
Silver-glittering with the morn,—
We will make him as fair to see.

[Taliesin and the Child reach the level, on which the three Damsels await them.
Child.
Pretty things, pretty things,—
What can they be?
Pretty toys, and pretty noise,—
Give them all to me.

Taliesin.
That was an easy climb, and yet I hardly
Can get my breath. You are not a light load,
Youngster, for all you're but a morning old.

First Damsel.
Bells I bring, that your steps may chime!

Second Damsel.
Jewels, every eye to spell!

Third Damsel.
Flowers, to girdle you with sweet air!

Child.
Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes,
Garlands of daffodil, lily, and rose!
She shall have music wherever she goes,
And hands to hold up in a beautiful pose,
And a very sweet smell in her nose,—her nose,—
A very sweet smell in her nose!

[A dance, in which the Child is passed from damsel to damsel, with a gay song; in the dance, they cover him with garments richly ornamented with bells, gems, and flowers.
Damsels.

[They dance away, leaving the Child covered with a profusion of ornaments.
Child
(still dancing).
Oh, see the pretty spangles
And hear the pretty jangles!
From every corner dangles
A garland to and fro!
I love the silver tinkling,
I love the starry twinkling,
Although I've not an inkling
Of what the garlands know.

Taliesin.
Beauty, but not the beauty of the soul
I see dim-glowing like a coal the wind
Fans till it kindles. Let the bells be bells,
The roses breathe their rose-thought out in odors,
The opal-passion through the opal sing;
Thy loveliness is other. Come, away!

Child.
You sha'n't have my pretty things, I say.

[Darting off.
Taliesin.
Nay, keep them, till you yield them of yourself.
... Higher to climb looks not so light a task
As this first hillock. No ascent I see
But up sheer heights and over rocky ways.
But on the summit see I not afar
Soft slopes and pleasant woods, and 'neath the boughs
Calm goddesses whose moving, even here,
Seems like a solemn music? ... I will climb!

[Climbs up and out of sight with the Child. The scene changes to the summit of Helicon. The nine Muses are moving through an intricate and stately dance, in the intervals of which they sing. A simpler movement of the dance continues through the singing.
The Muses.

Enter Taliesin and the Child.
Taliesin.
O benign goddesses, be gracious now
To me who call upon you, ignorant,
Unskilful, but my heart is set to sing.

Urania.
What gifts, then, dost thou bring, invoking goddesses?

Taliesin.
Joy, and a gift of praise, and sacrifice.

Urania.
Approach and offer these upon the altar, then.

Taliesin.
The sandals wherewith to this height I climbed,
These for a pledge of years and weariness;
The harp I play on, for a token of awe,
Praise and the utter yield of all my song
To your divine dominion, dames serene,
Daughters of Wisdom; last of all, I give
The song, the rapture of my heart, the love,
The lyric joy, the child that made me glad.
[He leaves the Child and the other gifts on the altar.
O splendors of the eternal, hear my prayer!
Teach me the knowledge of your ways, till what
I feel in all my veins, I may declare
In all my voices; what I know at heart,
In speech incarnate; what my soul desires,
Show forth in all the passion of my flesh.
Divinities of light, oh, hear my cry!

Urania.
In the beginning is the Word; God, perfect Spirit,
Eternally reveals himself. To Space he speaks
And clothes himself in thunders of orchestral stars.
He calls aloud, and Time grows rhythmic with the breath
Of life. The grappling of the spheres declares the might
Of his dominion, and their paths its perfectness.
Lo, he hath builded the foundations of the world
In night, and vaulted its blue dome with fire. His speech
Is in the carved work of its walls, and where his hand
Hath laid its floors in beauty. Very light of light,
Behind the drench and dream of color lurks his love.

Clio.
Empires, migrations, battles, thrones, democracies,
Wharves and adventuring sails, and clamor of fierce desires,
Cities and priesthoods,—so the spirit of man is clay
God moulds into the mighty image of his dream.

Urania.
The universe is his garment.

Clio.
And the soul of man
His image, triune, sense and thought and love, full-sphered.

Terpsichore.
Last through the body, one with Man and Nature,—a speech
Itself and mother of all speech else,—wherein the earth
Takes on the likeness of divinity,—he shines.

Taliesin.
Ay, but the blind world sees not, till the artist
Reverbs the messages. The myriad-wrought
Harmonies of design and color fade
For very intricacy of eloquence
Into an indistinguishable gray.
But bit by bit if disentangled, held
Apart, and shown to men, their eyes, once seeing
The broken beauty isolated, turn
Back to God's work to find it there forever;
So God makes use of poets. Teach me, then,
To fashion worlds in little, making form,
As God does, one with spirit,—be the priest
Who makes God into bread to feed the world.

Urania.
The body is a form, with line and tone and tint
And hue and texture, light and shade; and talks as clouds
And mountains do, and oaks and grass and starry nights;
And in its features what man is, is charactered.
Nor may he change his nature but sure Time inscribes
The record of the change upon that palimpsest.

Terpsichore.
Form is the subsidence upon the shores of Time
Left there by motion of forgotten seas. Not form
Alone, immutable and sterile diamond,
The body is, but vibrant, pregnable, a harp
Whereon the spirit plays innumerous melodies
Of motion,—chords, progressions visible,—wherein
Gather and fade the myriad unrecurring dreams,
Passions and ecstasies that sweep like shadows o'er
The prairies of man's heart.

Polyhymnia.
Nor this alone; without,
An instrument whereon the harmonies of light
And movement rise, within it is an organ wrought
From crown to midriff for the wonder of tone. And so
Man's life goes out in music.

Terpsichore.
Praise the body, then,
A loveliness itself and twofold lyre to call
New loveliness to being. Praise the blazon of flesh
That like a clarion sunburst trumpets to the night
The universe of soul: valley and peak and still
Woodland and quiver of the universal air
Leap from the silence, and the dead is made alive.

Euterpe.
Lute, viol, trumpet,—as a conquering king the soul
O'ersteps the realm ancestral, fills dead Africas
With colonies of music, multiplies its throne
In empired harmonies. The forest yields its trees,
The caverns of the earth their ores, and man creates
A thousand throats to speak through. Oh, the wondrous frame
The soul shall fashion for itself in that vast life
God keeps for it in heaven! Speech of the yet unshaped,
Dream of the yet enwombed and unborn in man's heart,
He gropes for in the shudderings of the air.

Erato.
And last
Man names the world, himself, and all that is therein,
The incantation of the word calls from the dark
The phantoms of the mind, insights, analogies,
Conceptions, ratiocinations, memories,—
Bodiless wizardries whose air-drawn lineaments
Compel the ages.

Calliope.
Word, tone, gesture, color, shape,
I sum them in the deed. Man, Master of an Act,
At last and only finds whole utterance. Poet, sing
The Hero, then, the man whose work the Lord of Worlds
Confirms coeval with his peaks and stars.

Melpomene.
All speech
Made one to voice the strife irreconcilable
Of Will and Doom, of man and his relentless births
Rending the spirit that engendered them, the war
Of thunders in mid-air, battling if earth shall be
Blasted, or filled with foison more divine,—for this
Body and vesture, sound, speech, color, deed, inwrought
In harmonies of harmonies!

Thalia.
All language, too,
For joy, for reconcilement! God is a merry God;
And from their lofty seats the laughter of the gods
Goes up like crackling smoke of mighty forest fires.
For mirth, the child, and reconciling love, a tall
Young angel, and the calm of slow full-statured joy,
These three stand nighest about the throne of God; and these
Man utters and arouses when I come.

Taliesin.
I reel,
Drunken with vision. Enter into me,
Ye voices, and become my life, my soul!
Or how shall I become what I discern?

Terpsichore.
Attend; and take the meaning of the signs you see.

[A marvellous dance of the nine Muses. Terpsichore, approaching the altar, takes therefrom the Child, who, as he joins in the dance and repeats the beautiful, mysterious motions of the goddesses, is transformed from stage to stage of stature and loveliness, until he appears a youth, tall and slender and of perfect beauty. He is completely naked, all his ornaments having fallen from him in the dance. But the Muses gather up and restore to him a few, of such a nature that they enhance rather than cumber the lithe grace of his figure. The dance finished, the Youth turns to Taliesin. As he does so, Taliesin is aware that Nimue is again standing by his side; and with her the presence of two of the gods, which are Hermes and Apollo.
The Youth.
Below
The city waits with garlands, and I go;
The city waits with garlands like a bride.
Now with the joy still in that look of hers,
I must go to her. Not a sea-breath stirs
Across the gardens where she waits and dreams
Of one whose coming shall be like a tide
Of day, flooding the marsh-long loops and gleams
Of sunrise heavens in midsummertide.
I am her lover; it is I she waits.
Farewell; I go like summer to her gates.

Hermes.
Stay for a moment. If you go into the city
With no more raiment than you need on Helicon,
You'll hardly get the kind of welcome that you look for.
Put on this mantle; it is the prevailing fashion,
And has a magic virtue. All to whom you speak
Will listen while you wear it. Should you strip it off,
Beware! men stone the fool that jargons in their ears,
... And, since you seem to be in something of a hurry,
Here, take my sandals (you observe the wings on them);
Be off; you need winged sandals when a lady's waiting.
Only, be sure, next time you are passing by Olympus,
Leave them with Ganymede; I do not wish to lose them.

[Apollo stretches forth his hands upon the Youth.
Apollo.
When thou wast still blown through the leaves at the will of the air,
I was with thee!
And when thou wert gathered in sleep in the womb of the dark,
I was with thee!
Look on me! Dost thou know me, who I am?

The Youth.
Brightness of God, bless me and set me free!

[Apollo breathes upon his forehead, and the face and the whole body of the Youth send forth a glow as of flame seen through a veil.
Taliesin.
These be the gods, in truth.

Nimue.
And I, a god,
Am with thee forever.

Taliesin.
I fear the gifts of gods.

Nimue.
The gifts of the gods are twofold,—death and life,

Taliesin.
Come death then, so they give me life indeed.

The Youth.
O World! O Life! O City by the Sea!
Hushed is the hum
Of streets; a pause is on the minstrelsy.
I come, I come!
The sunlight of thy gardens from afar
Is in my heart.
A girl's laugh dropt from heaven like a star
Leads where thou art.
The old men in the market-place confer,
The streets are dumb;
The sentinels await a harbinger—
I come, I come!

[He leaps downward through the air, and his song is heard dying in the distance. Taliesin kneels before Apollo, about whom the Muses gather.
The Muses.

Apollo.
Give ear to their teaching, O thou who wouldst take fire and beacon with me!
As wood or as brass they shall fashion thee; yea, as a lyre they shall frame
Thy heart, and thy lips shall be moulded as the lips of a trumpet are wrought.
They are cunning artificers; they are the makers of lutes for the gods.
But, behold, I am he that shall smite into music the lutes they have strung;
I am he that shall breathe through their trumpets; I am he that shall burn in their lyres.
Ere thou lifted thy face for my seeking, ere thou wert, ere the world was, or these,
The Nine of the secrets of wisdom, I was, and my song was, with God;
And through me and the sound of my singing they were made, and all things that were made.

The Muses.

Apollo.
Greaten thyself to the end, I am he for whose breath thou art greatened;
Perfect thy speech to a god's, I am he for whom speech is made perfect;
And my voice in the hush of thy heart is the voice of the tides of the worlds.
Thou shalt know it is I when I speak, as the foot knows the rock that it treads on,
As the sea knows the moon, as the sap knows the place of the sun in the heavens,
As the cloud knows the cloud it must meet and embrace with caresses of lightning.
When thou hearest my voice, thou art one with the hurl of the stars through the void,
One with the shout of the sea and the stampede of droves of the wind,
One with the coursers of Time and the grip of God's hand on their harness;
And the powers of the night and the grave shall avail not to stand in thy path.

The Muses.

THIRD MOVEMENT.

The Chapel of the Graal. A Gothic hall of alabaster. In the middle, at back, steps lead up as to an altar; but in the stead of one are massive golden doors, bolted heavily. On the sides, the usual choir-stalls, in which the Choristers stand, singing their office. The aisle between is spacious, and in it, on the left, on a couch covered with white leopard skins, King Evelac, a man old beyond belief, with long white hair and beard, clad in white garments and crowned with a silver crown inwrought with diamonds, reclines as if sick and worn with long dolors. On the right, further back, Percival lies asleep, in the same posture as when the might of the sleep came upon him. His head and arm rest upon a couch covered with white leopard skins, and at his head Nimue stands, erect and clad in her electric mantle. Beside them Taliesin sits, with his harp. A blue light burns in the sanctuary-lamp.
Neither King Evelac nor the Choristers pay any heed to the presence of the others; nor does the King at any time rise or change his posture.
Choristers.

King Evelac.
As a stir in the air, when the aspens alone are aware—

Choristers.
We have heard thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As a voice in a dream, as an echo of voice in a dream—

Choristers.
We have heard thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As the birth of a rose, as the noise of an opening rose—

Choristers.
We have heard thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As the song of the spheres, as the cry of the lapse of the years—

Choristers.
We have heard thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As a cloud in the sky, that dissolves ere it catches the eye—

Choristers.
We have seen thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As the light in a face, that a moment sufficed to efface—

Choristers.
We have seen thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As the breath of the moon in the lull of a midnight in June—

Choristers.
We have seen thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As the vision supreme, when the prayer dies away in the dream—

Choristers.
We have seen thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As the fingers that pass in the stir of the wind in the grass—

Choristers.
We have touched thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As a bird feels the air in its wings, to caress and upbear—

Choristers.
We have touched thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As the breath of a lover is warm on the cheek of his love—

Choristers.
We have touched thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
As the feel of the night and its spaces, about and above—

Choristers.
We have touched thee, Beloved.

King Evelac.
By the cry of the heart in the darkness, to know where thou art—

Choristers.
We beseech thee to hear us.

King Evelac.
By the grace thou hast shown, by the tokens and touch we have known—

Choristers.
We beseech thee to hear us.

King Evelac.
By the vigil thou keepest about us, awake and asleep—

Choristers.
We beseech thee to hear us.

King Evelac.
By thy coming at night, by the voice and the kiss and the light—

Choristers.
We beseech thee to hear us. ...

King Evelac.
Listen to the fearfulness of our love.

Choristers.
And forgive us the unloveliness that we have wrought. ...

King Evelac.
Alas, the memory of our trespass clings
Bat-like and sucks the courage of our hearts.
Alas, the knowledge of our faithlessness
Clings like an ivy to our crumbled pride.

Choristers.
Forgive us, Beloved.

King Evelac.
Nathless, thou hast not wholly cast us off.
Nathless, we are the wardens of the light
We may not see, the love we dare not touch.
Oh, may the time be shortened that we watch!

Choristers.
Forgive us, Beloved. ...

King Evelac.
Therefore we have shaken off fear from our feet and shame from our eyelids.

Choristers.
And our song is a song of love, and our voice is a voice of rejoicing. ...

King Evelac.
As a poet abashed at the heights on him flashed from above—

Choristers.
We adore thee, O Lord.

King Evelac.
As a dog lifts his pitiful eyes to his master for love—

Choristers.
We adore thee, O Lord.

King Evelac.
As a child's heart breaks in the dark for its mother with love—

Choristers.
We adore thee, O Lord.

King Evelac.
As a maiden's soul is a moonlit marsh with love—

Choristers.
We adore thee, O Lord.

King Evelac.
O secret, O sweet, O piercing Lord of the soul! ...

Choristers.

[A long pause, in which the Choristers remain with their faces raised in silent adoration. Then, rising, they leave the stalls silently and, meeting in the centre, before the golden doors, kneel two by two; turning, they come down the spacious aisle and, pausing two by two to bow before the ancient King, go out in silence by a little door on the right. During the singing of the office, Percival has awaked.
Percival.
There is a quiet thrill along the air,
As if God laid his hand upon the place.
How came we hither? Whither have we come?

Taliesin.
We came through many lands, across a sea,
And into a white summer. When I first
Looked on it, tales of Thule and Ysmonde
Woke in my soul, and lands of ice and snow.
But from the fields a breath of lilied June
Blessed me upon the eyelids with a kiss.
No glitter of the diamonds of the snow
Was on the fields, but lilies and white grass,
Softer than ermine, lush and thick and deep,
Wherein no footfall sounded. Tall white trees
Blossomed with pale mists of blue flowers; and birds
With plumage like the green of sunset skies,
Or the dim violet of the moon's dark orb
When the first silver rims it, sprang from bough
To bough and sang as birds sing in a dream
Of argent heavens. Aloof, against white cliffs
The blue sea lay in calm, silent and smooth,
Under the cloudless sky. And all the place
Was dim as the great deeps of a man's soul
Or of the sea. And in the midst of all
Lay a white temple, with a golden light
That issued from its roof and reached the sky
Like a strange sunrise coming from the north.
Therein we entered.

Percival.
Knowest thou naught else?
(To Nimue.)
... Unknown and mighty, who hast brought me here,
Tell me, thou! Is it the Chapel of the Graal?
[Nimue vanishes softly as he speaks, but a vague wraith of her is still, from time to time, seen dimly in the shadows.
(To Evelac.)
... King, for thou seemest like a king and bearest
Upon thy brow the closed crown of a king;
Priest, for thou doest the office of a priest
And wearest alb and stole—I kneel to thee,
Unwitting who thou art. Wisdom and eld
Are in thy face, at least, and kindliness.
I pray thee, tell me whither I am come.

King Evelac.
Since I came into the white land, the slow
Waters that eat an inch a year, have gnawed
The length of six graves inland from the cliffs.
Here without change of spring or winter, I,
Changeless as the still season, wait. My name
Is Evelac, of whom perchance some bruit
Sighs still along the arches of the world.
I was a king, what time one of the Three
Who are in One forever, shrank his skies
Into the compass of a maiden's womb.
After He tore the mask from rosy Death,
Arimathean Joseph came to me
In the wild North I reigned in, preaching peace,
Bearing in his hands a marvel, even—

Percival.
The Graal!

King Evelac.
The Cup of Mystery, men call the Graal:
Thou seekest it? Beware! On me, the first,
The sacred madness of the Vessel came.
Too rash, I would have stretched my hand upon it
When Joseph died; the wound thereof I bear.
Yet,—for my love was great,—this grace is mine,
That God shall choose the issue of my flesh
To lift the Graal up like a vasty torch
Blazing God's beacon in the gulfs of sky;
And till he come, the ninth from me in birth,
I, seeing not, unworthy to draw nigh,
Barred from its beauty and its gloriousness,
Keep watch before yon portals of its shrine,
Doing due ritual, warding it from ill,
The porter of the mysteries of God.
The centuries go by like northern lights;
But I remain till all this be fulfilled,
And he whom God has chosen, come at last
To heal me of my wound, and gain the Graal.

Percival.
Not overbold, nor without heavenly signs,
Have I come hither.

King Evelac.
Art thou he I wait?
Come near, my son, that I may look on thee. ...
Seven kings have ruled the realm I left to them,
Eldest from eldest born, of my descent,
The last of whom was Ban. From him should spring
A son, his first-born, whom all men shall praise;
And from that son he that shall gain the Graal. ...

Percival.
The first-born of King Ban all men indeed
Praise, and acknowledge knight without a peer;
All men, from Arthur to a villager,
Praise Launcelot du Lac, the son of Ban.

King Evelac.
And art thou, then, his son?

Percival.
No son of his
Breathes the sweet air that blows across the world.
Bound by a sterile love of lips denied,
Too fervent-faithful to that love to woo
Another, he will never have a son.

King Evelac.
God shall accomplish his decrees, though chance,
Folly, and the weak wills of men withstand them.
Man's disobedience shall fulfil his hests
As well as man's submission. Deem not thou
The oracles of God are empty words. ...
And as for thee, since thou art not the son
I wait, give o'er; the Graal is not for thee.

Percival.
Thy oracles for thee, and mine for me.
I have no other lantern for my feet
Than the one given into my hand. The lights
That others bear, however true for them,
But cast conflicting gleams athwart my path
And dazzle all my searching. Such high warrant
I have for my desire, I must obey,
Were Death, not Life, the Lord behind the door. ...

[He takes three steps toward the golden doors and stops suddenly, as if arrested by an invisible hand. The bolts glide back of themselves, noiselessly, and the doors open. The soft, intense splendor of the Graal fills all the place, but the Graal is not seen; for seven

---

50

Angels, all in gold, stand before it, which are the Seven that see God continually. One of them, Uriel, who stands in the middle, a little before the others, holds in his hands a flaming sword.
Uriel.
Percival ... Percival! ... Approach no nearer thy desire, thou of the Choice.
The time is not yet. Still the air thy spirit breathes too thickened is with noise
Of earth-blown rumors for the thin pulsations of the interstellar voice
To stir its sluggard atoms to the unbroken theme the deeps hear and rejoice.
Thy heart is yet too full of anger, and the hate of evil clots thy soul;
Too far from hell to hate it must he be whom God shall breathe on as a coal
Until the pure light of perfection burns about him like an aureole.
Pray to the tranquil night to let the calm of stars beneath the silent pole
Fall like a mighty hand upon thy spirit, even like the hand of Death.
And in that hour when thou art clothed upon with the tranquillity of Death,
When Love has cast out even the hate of hate,—Love whom the gods name Death,—
Come, and the gates shall open; come, and thou shalt enter in the holy place,
See the mask melt into the features of the Living Soul it covers, face
The Eyes that all love looks through, feel intense about thee like a burning breath
The swift invasion of his heart-beats, the reverberation of his grace. ...

Taliesin.
Lord, who am I that I should let my voice
Swim like a mote into the golden silence
That pours like sunlight from thy ended speech? ...
Tall lord of splendors, slay me not with light,
If I, unworthier than a grasshopper,
Send my thin cry across the summer noon! ...
Yet will I take heart, O my lord, and speak;
For thou it was, none other, albeit now
In fiercer light and shape more awful shown,
That on the Mount of Vision spake to me
And showed me many signs and breathed upon me,
Filling my spirit with the pulse of Time.
Under thy forms I know thee for the same;
And by the touch still tingling on my brow
Dare speak a child's speech at my father's feet.
Behold the man that kneels before thee here,
Whom thou dost not arraign of any sin.
Much has he wrought and suffered much, to come
Unto this place. Shall he be sent away
With no more grace than this thou givest him?

Uriel.
Better the rose of love out of the dung-hill of the world's adulteries
Than the maid icicle that keeps itself from stain of earth where no life is
In the aloof of splendors boreal. His own soul bars him from God's bliss,
Dwindling the sun to its own sterile sheen and freezing with transparencies.
Let him go back among his fellow-men and learn to love and learn to give,
Forgetting the white beauty of his soul in the desire that all that live
Should beacon into beauty. ... Yet a sign to star the dark he shall receive,
Because another pleads for him. Such power have prayers of self oblivious.
Let him await Another who shall come, and sit in the Siege Perilous,
And live. In him he shall behold how light can look on darkness and forgive,
How love can walk in the mire and take no stain therefrom. In him he shall possess
The stainlessness he craves, outside himself; and in that vision luminous
Letting his chiselled virtue melt, reflect at last God's loving holiness. ...

Taliesin.
My thoughts are vain thoughts, and my words are folly;
Yet I have spoken and thou hast not frowned,
Yet I have cried and thou hast looked on me.
Therefore will I gird my heart up once again
And speak out boldly to the Lord my God.
Thou who beholdest God continually,
Doth not his light shine even on the blind
Who feel the flood they lack the sense to see?
The lark that seeks him in the summer sky
Finds there the great blue mirror of his soul;
Winged with the dumb need of he knows not what,
He finds the mute speech of he knows not whom.
Is not the wide air, after the cocoon,
As much God as the moth-soul can receive?
Doth not God give the child within the womb
Some guess to set him groping for the world,
Some blurred reflection answering his desire?
We, shut in this blue womb of doming sky,
Guess and grope dimly for the vast of God,
And, eyeless, through some vague, less perfect sense
Strive for a sign of what it is to see.
The gardens that we journey for are hid
Behind the curve of the eternal sphere;
Yet sometimes in the sky there is a light
As of a thousand pearls, that is of them.
This man has reached the little-travelled roads;
Grant him some vision of the nearing goal.

Uriel.
Draw nearer, thou! For unto thee shall be declared the word of him that is.
Less perfect in the circle of thy powers than he thou pleadest for in his,
Thou hast a sense he lacks, a sense still clouded over with impurities
But dim-discerning the eidolons that arise from that which is not seen.
Kneel; for before thy time the Lord shall lead thy feet into the Ways Serene,
Into the meadows of his smile, the riverlands that look upon his mien;
Before thy time thy soul shall bathe in the still pools in which his Face is seen.
[He lifts a sphere of diamond above his head.
Draw near and look within the crystal orb I lift above thee for a sign.
The glory hidden from thee by our golden wings upon that sphere a-shine
Leaves there the vision lurking for the eyes that see. Deem not the grace is thine
Of thine own merit. Much is given unto thee, that much by thee be given.
Thou art the eye for him thou comest with, that he may know the joy divine;
Thou art an eye for all thy kind, to lead them to the open gates of heaven. ...

[Taliesin slowly draws nearer the Angel and kneels on the lowest step beneath his feet, looking up fearfully into the diamond sphere.
The Angels.

Taliesin.
[Taking his harp, he sings:

The Angels.
Thine! Thine!
Shrined in the worlds of worlds, whom yet the shrine
Of the domed universe doth not confine!
Red in the chalice of the years like wine!
Uttered, unutterable, awful, and benign!
Thine! Thine! Thine! Thine! Thine! ...
Thine! ... Thine! ... Thine! ...
Thine! ...

[The golden doors close silently, and the song of the Angels dies away within.

5. V. The Holy Graal and Other Fragments

THE HOLY GRAAL

A Tragedy

• Arthur, King of Britain.
• Dubric, Archbishop of Canterbury.
• Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
• Galahault, Knight of the Round Table.
• Lamoracke, Knight of the Round Table.
• Bors De Ganys, Knight of the Round Table.
• Galahad, son of Launcelot, Knight of the Round Table.
• Percival, brother of Lamoracke, Knight of the Round Table.
• Gawaine, Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
• Agravaine, Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
• Gaheris, Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
• Gareth, Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
• Mordred. Son of Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
• Kaye, Knight of the Round Table.
• Taliesin, a Bard.
• Dagonet, a Jester.
• Pander.
• Porter.
• Guenevere, Queen of Britain.
• Morgause, Queen of Orkney.
• Morgana, an Enchantress, Queen of Gore.
• Madelon, sister of Percival.
• Sendal.
• Guimere.
• Lionors.

Knights, Ladies, Priests, Monks, Harlots, Soldiers, Attendants, Pages, etc.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—The Castle of Morgause, Queen of Orkney. A Chamber. Morgause, standing by a window. Morgana.
Morgause.
Is there no charm to overturn his state?
No magic net to cast about his legs
And trip him in his triumph? Where's that skill
For which the ignorant people call you witch
And even the learned, seeing the strange control
With which you make the laws of things o'ercome
And contradict themselves, call by your name
The emancipated worlds that hang in the clouds,
Fata Morgana—where's the use of witchcraft
When Arthur lives and waxes? Oh, for some horror
To strike him helpless, paralyzed, aghast,
With doom advancing on him! Why, he grows
Too great for this small world, and his vast stride
Will shortly plant one foot out on the moon
And straddle space for empire. The old heroes
Are clean forgot, and every piping poet
Must squeak of Arthur, where the antique bards
Sang the divine deeds of the sons of gods.

Morgana.
What share have we in it? We are his sisters,
Or else he is no king. Where, then, our part
I' the pageant and the power?

Morgause.
He knows well
We are no sisters to him. He is a changeling,
A base-born upstart, an abandoned bastard—
Who knows save Merlin?—Merlin's son, perhaps,
And grandson to the Devil.

Morgana.
He has scorned us.
You know that once I stole Excalibur,
The sword and scabbard, and for proxy left
A false and brittle weapon by his bed,
Where he slept heavily beneath my spell;
And that Sir Accolon took the great sword
And fought with him, and yet the King o'ercame,
Though weak with wounds and well-nigh weaponless.
He slew Sir Accolon—

Morgause.
Alas, my sister!

Morgana.
Tut, can a dead man longer give us joy?
He slew Sir Accolon, but slew not me,
Who was his worser foe. You knew all this,
But knew not that I sought his couch again
Where, seeing the sword clutched in his sleeping hand,
I durst not touch it; but the sheath I took
And cast it in the pool.

Morgause.
And to what end?
Men fight not with their sheaths.

Morgana.
There spoke the unlearned.
Not by the forthright and the obvious way
Is knowledge won or power. Upon this sheath
There is a prophecy that his fortunes hang
And on its loss the loss of all his weal.

Morgause.
And you believe this?

Morgana.
I have studied long
In learning fearsome to the general,
And marvels have become my commonplaces,
And now I prophesy that from this hour
The flood of Arthur's destiny stands still
And lapses to its ebb.

Morgause.
Look yonder! Look!
A rider in the road!—a knight!—Ah me,
If it were Lamoracke!

Morgana.
Give heed to me.
You were not wont to be a lovesick girl
In your amours. I go to Camelot,
Where I would have your son, Sir Mordred, come—

Morgause.
Mordred, my son?

Morgana.
You shudder at his name.

Morgause.
He and his name alike are dreadful to me.

Morgana.
Your son, Sir Mordred, whom you bore to Arthur,
Before you found him so unlovable.

Morgause.
What said he then of brother or of sister?
An idle tale to help him to the throne,
For which he spat on me!—The knight draws near.—
Hell were too brief to give my outrage ease!—
'Tis he! 'Tis Lamoracke.

Morgana.
Now out upon you
For a weak fool! Is this to wreak revenge?
I come to show the way. Send Mordred to me
Disguised, for Arthur cannot bear his face.
It is as sure as there is truth in hell
That he shall kill the King. My nightly devil—

Morgause.
He is at the drawbridge. See, he enters in!
—Oh, Mordred shall be told. His hate no more
Than mine needs your exciting. I have lived
So long with hate it hath become unconscious;
Nor would I think of it,—it has grown tiresome,—
And I would have some joy before I die.
Love is more novel. Oh, I shall remember!
[Enter Lamoracke.]
O Lamoracke!

Morgana.
Nay, farewell then! I'll not stay
To listen love-songs.

Lamoracke.
Not so fast, fair lady,
For I have news to make you gasp with wonder.

Morgause.
No tenderer greeting! Do you fear my sister?
I do not say that she's not dangerous;
But since when have we loved like timid wives
And startled cavaliers that meet by stealth
And dare not fling their deeds in the world's face
And scoff at scandal? Would all Camelot
Knew with what scorn their coward decencies
And creeds that have no birth behind the lips—
Why, what's the matter, sir?

Lamoracke.
Though all my soul
Cry out to reach you, I may not advance.
I have sworn a vow.

Morgana.
This is most strange.

Morgause.
A vow!

Lamoracke.
'Tis but three days ago I left you. Well,
Three days will serve as well as thirty years
To make the world all over. I have seen
It is another kind of world than that
I thought it. I accept what I have seen.

Morgana.
More mysteries! Your news, sir.

Lamoracke.
Yesterday
There came a young lad to the Court,—by heaven,
A beardless boy, as frail as some slim girl
With pale thin face and sad unheeding eyes
That men remember when they have passed by.
This child—what think you that he came to seek?
Knighthood—the heavy arms of strong men and
The stress of errantry. By God, no less!
Then came Sir Launcelot and called him son
And knighted him; and in the joust that day
He did unhorse me, me whose name men speak
With Launcelot's and Tristram's. This he did,
This stripling, Galahad, Sir Launcelot's son.

Morgana.
What, has the faithful Launcelot proved untrue?

Lamoracke.
No man dare say that Launcelot e'er was false
To Guenevere. This is the tale they tell.
Elaine, the daughter of King Pelleas,
Loved him, and knowing him too true to see
In all the world but one fair woman's love,
Got her old nurse, Dame Brisen, with enchantments
To clothe her in the likeness of the Queen.
Then came she in to Launcelot and he,
Unwitting was deceived; and in this wise
Was Galahad engendered.

Morgause.
Come, your vow!

Morgana.
This is the tale he told to Guenevere;
How easily men think us to be gulled.

Morgause.
What care I for this boy? There's more behind.

Lamoracke.
The selfsame night, the jousting being done,
And the King being absent with Sir Galahault,
Sir Kaye and others on affairs of state,
We sat us down to feast; whereat this boy,
This Galahad, being new-come to our board,
Cast but a glance about the great Round Table,
And with the sudden sureness of a shaft
Gained his quick-chosen seat,—a throne wherein
Not the great King himself e'er dared to rest,
And Merlin called it the Siege Perilous.
For it was written that no man might sit
Within that seat, save one it waited for,
But he should die. Therein the boy sat down
And died not, but his face seemed glorified,
And a great marveling went about the hall.

Morgana.
So had it been with you, had you sat there,
Or any other knight. Now it is strange
How men will dread their own imaginings.

Lamoracke.
There as we sat, expectant of strange things,
A sudden storm arose, and the quick lightnings
Made pale and lurid in recurrent change
The torches of our feast; and each man spoke
Hoarse or in whispers or with measured voice
As each one felt in his own way the awe
That calms the air before prodigious births.
What happened then I cannot well report,
For I was all confused; but Percival
My brother saith it was the Holy Graal
That passed before our eyes, the very Cup
Wherein Our Lord first shed his mystic Blood,
Brought by the saint from Palestine and shrined
At Glastonbury many centuries.
Long since it vanished and it now returns
To bring the golden ages back to us.
I saw it not but saw its radiance
And felt its power. So, silent for a space
We stood, till Gawaine broke the hush and swore
An oath that for a twelvemonth and a day
No lust of body nor no lust of praise
Nor aught that chains us to this middle-earth
Should intercept him but he should attain
This quest. And all we swore it after him.

Morgana.
Virgins! Ha! Ha! The Knights of Camelot
Sworn virgins for a year!

Lamoracke.
It is our oath.

Morgana.
Then I may safely leave you with my sister.
Farewell, sir. I'm in haste for Camelot
Where lords are welcome more than ladies now.
Sister, forget not to send on a man.
Farewell! La! virgins!

[Exit laughing.]
Morgause.
Lamoracke!

Lamoracke.
Morgause!
I could not leave—I could not go away
Upon so far—so vague—I know not what—
Without a last farewell.

Morgause.
So far? Would you be further
If you in truth had found the Holy Graal
On the other side of Nowhere?

Lamoracke.
I have sworn.

Morgause.
Sworn what? Sworn infidelity? Sworn hate?
Then why are you come here? O Lamoracke!
Say it is false, say that my ears have lied,
You said it not, you swore no vow. Kiss me
And say it is not true.

Lamoracke.
It is the truth.

Morgause.
Why should you take a quest like this upon you?
You are no visionary.

Lamoracke.
The rest swore and I swore.

Morgause.
How little we are to you? Why, a woman—
[OMITTED]
And you betray us for a summer dream.

Lamoracke.
Look you, I have no great faith in this quest.
Such things may be for Galahad—not for me.
But I have undertaken it. Stand not you
Between me and the trial. I have come
Straining a bond which yet I will not break
For parting and not pleasure. Let us part.

Morgause.
Since it must be, then, and the love you swore
Is all so weak, since all our joy must pass
And that sweet season when life san for us
With lips that half forgot old cruelties,
—Do you remember when you kissed me first?
Ah, I remember, for the sun seemed then
To burst the black clouds that o'erroofed my life,
And all the quivering color of the day
And happy voices of all living things
Began then. Ah, how wicked I had been—
How joyless you will never know. You saved me
—Love saved me, love reconciles all ill—
But let that pass. Since all this now is done,
One boon, for dead love's sake, ere love be dead.

Lamoracke.
So that it be not to forego the quest,
Anything!

Morgause.
One last night of joy.

Lamoracke.
Of joy?

Morgause.
Nay, start not, nothing that your vow forbids.
One night of revelry in innocence
As in the old days when you found me here
And cheered my desolation ere we loved
As we have loved.

Lamoracke.
So be it.

Morgause.
[Sings]
Lionors!
[Enter Lionors.]
Quick, uncorslet the good knight—
Or stay, no hands but mine shall do that office.
Be ready with a bowl to lave his hands
In orient perfumes—and fetch in a mantle
Of softest sarsnet, rich in broideries.
[Exit Lionors]
[Sings as she undoes his armor.]
[Re-enter Lionors with mantle, and Attendant with bowl, etc.]
[Exeunt Lionors and Attendant.]
[The context of this song of Morgause is among the lost material.]

SCENE II.

—A Courtyard. Fountain playing, flowers, etc. Pander and Porter on a bench, throwing dice.
Pander.

The devil's in the dice. I'll play no more to-day. God be praised, trade was never more brisk, and we have the finest pieces of women's flesh in fifty leagues. Else your cursed luck had drained me as dry as a worm-eaten walnut.

Porter.

Fortune's a balky filly; you must ride hard while she is in mood to carry you.

[Knocking.]
Pander.
More gallants! Well, I see Venus isn't ungodessed yet.
[Exit Porter.]
He that would get gold, let him sell the necessities of life.
[Enter Percival and Galahad.]
Good evening, gentlemen, and a merry night to you. I'll go call the ladies.
[Exit Pander.]

Percival.
That's an odd varlet.

Galahad.
Ay? I did not mark him.

Percival.
I liked him not. This is a pleasant place.

Galahad.
How beautiful are lilies! See them raise
Their crowned heads like royalties above
Their lowlier fellows. There's no king on earth
So simply all-sufficient to his life
As these. There is a touch of God in them.

Percival.
It is the glory of man that he must strive.

Galahad.
That he may reach their rounded life at last.

Percival.
No more than these?

Galahad.
Ay, more than these, no doubt,
But filling out his vaster orb of life
And love and contemplation with the same
Serene completeness and untroubled poise,
Not fretful, not unsatisfied, not eager,
But calm, great, un ...
Like lilies in the garden of the Lord.

[Enter Sendal and Guimere.]
Guimere.
...

SCENE III.

—Camelot. Hall of the Palace. Dubric and Launcelot.
Dubric.
Now God be praised that thou, Sir Launcelot,
Art wrought to this resolve. One act of thine
Outsermons my whole Lent,—so much art thou
The secret heart of every Knight-at-arms
Made manifest, his pattern and desire.
For what thou hast revealed, I have entombed it.
Even had confession no safeguarding oath,
Yet were my love for thee, my son, too great
And my desire to help thee to an end
So nobly vowed, too keen—Be not afraid;
This sleeps, for me, until the great awakening
At the Last Day.

Launcelot.
My sin has rent my heart;
I have seen day by day unworthy loves
Taking in vain the name of that which was,
So help me Christ, howe'er an act of sin,
In both our hearts a holy mystery.
I have seen myself, unworthy that I am,
Chosen of men a captain and exemplar,
And by the same lips that exalted me
Debased with attribution of vile thought
Until the holiest secrets of my heart
Showed shameful and malign, and so deformed
Became a scripture for the vulgar spirit
To justify its filth with. So I saw
That that which was the cause of sin in others,
Howe'er itself immaculate at heart,
Must be by circumstance made interdict.

Dubric.
Man cannot live unto himself alone,
But every deed returns upon the doer
A thousandfold. What he hath done to one,
He doth admit that all may do to him,
And who shall say how many will accept
The gage?

Launcelot.
I had a quarrel with the world;
It had done me wrong; therefore I put it by
And took my own, or so I thought. But now,
Even to take my own, I would not do
This evil to my fellows.

Dubric.
Ay, well said;
And yet do not too much forget, my son,
That howsoe'er your heart betray your conscience,
Confusing good and ill, it was a sin,
Essentially a sin, for coveting
Gives no true title, though it lead to theft.
Self masques so oft as conscience there's no safety
Save in submitting conscience, self and all,
To her who only can distinguish them
Unerringly, the Church. To her hath God
Committed this, and what she binds on earth
Is bound in heaven, and what she looses here
Is loosed there also.

Launcelot.
I would in all things
Submit myself to Holy Church as unto
God visible and audible on earth.
Therefore, resigning all pretence to judge,
I have committed to the Church and God
The argument of sin, content myself
To execute their warrants. And now, absolved,
I leave the past and with a single heart
Devote myself to this most holy quest,
Whereof the vision and the miracle
Vouchsafed us in the coming of the Graal
Is as the rainbow covenanting hope;
And to what service else the Church may will.

Dubric.
God's blessing be an Eastern star to thee
And lead thee to His peace.

[Enter Galahault and Bors.]
Galahault.
Old friend, what's this?

Launcelot.
Welcome to Camelot!

Galahault.
Sir Bors hath told me
A tale so strange I scarce can credit it.
Go you upon this quest?

Launcelot.
Ay, if so be
In any way I may renew good deeds.

Galahault.
Or any way employ your soul. I see
You too have known at last life's weariness.
Ah well, pray God you find a better cure
Than I!

Launcelot.
Will you not come with me, my friend?

Galahault.
Not I; I am too far gone in weariness.
I have not faith enough to serve a flea
To jump from dog to dog. Besides, you leave
The King alone; scarce one of his great knights
But goes upon the quest. Needs must that some
Remain nor leave him all disretinued.

Launcelot.
Mayhap your service will be more than ours;
But I am hushed with hope. What tidings, Bors?
Is all made ready for our setting forth?

Bors.
Our steeds stand saddled at the palace gates,
Yours, Galahad's, Percival's and my own.

Launcelot.
And where
Is Galahad?

Bors.
With Percival. They are
Inseparable as doves. Even such a pair
Meseemeth you and I in the old days
Dreamed and aspired together. Twenty years
Sink out of time, and over the long gap
My soul leaps back to boyhood when I see them,
And my eyes fill with tears.

Launcelot.
God grant that they
Make good our failures! Though I lose all else,
I am most happy that I have my son,
My Galahad, in whose more perfect life
I shall not be left all unjustified.

[Enter Dagonet, with a lantern.]
Galahault.
What do you with the lantern, Fool?

Dagonet.

I am a philosopher hunting mice. When the wise men all turn fools, it is time for the fool to turn wise man. And, in truth, I think my search will bring me to a bottle before theirs will them to a cup.

Dubric.
Let not your folly grow blasphemous.

Dagonet.

Nay, the King will not let my tongue be slit; he is too poor in advisers. The whole Court is Graal-mad, and Sir Galahault and I are all that is left of the Privy Council.

Galahault.
Even so, fellow-counsellor. Where left you the King?

Dagonet.
At his wit's end.

Galahault.
No; but whereabouts?

Dagonet.
Beside himself.

Galahault.
But in what place?

Dagonet.

In a tight one; for his knights leave him to chase fireflies, while all the lamps of the kingdom are left untrimmed—all save the Fool's lantern, and that serves but to show empty benches. But, in good sooth, the King is coming hitherward quite outcaptained and helpless even to show his own vexation.

[Enter Arthur, Kaye and others; Percival and Taliesin.]
Arthur.
Is it true, Launcelot?
Was there no thought of me or my great dream
To build the perfect State (whereto ye all
Were bound with a great oath)—did naught of this
Speak for me in your heart? Heaven may be served
In many ways. I trust I serve no less,
Who would extend God's justice and knit close
The solid race, than they that seek new ways
To bring the grace of heaven into our hearts.
Even to do good, will you forsake that good
Whereto your hands are set?

Launcelot.
My lord, believe me,
I serve you best in this.

Arthur.
Nay, go thy way.
Thou art the noblest man my swarming life
Has yet been fronted with. What thou doest
Must have some glory in it; nor would I
Have anyone for me break sacred vows,
Though they were madness. Yet I must bewail
That which deprives my kingdom of thy sword,
My heart of thy great spirit. God be with thee!

ACT III.

SCENE II

Arthur.
O Guenevere, you have made me the happiest man
To-night in all my kingdoms. I have craved
Long years, and have not spoken. I have held
Your selfhood far more royal than my crown
And your soul's privacy more sacred from
Irreverent entrance than the sanctuary.
Your husband, I have held your loveliness
Exempt; your King, I ne'er profaned your will.

Guenevere.
O sir, you have been royal.

Arthur.
Nay, I think
That I have been but just. There's nought so dear
To man or woman as that crag of life
Where each walks lonely. There's no bond on earth,
Nor wedlock nor the sacred rule of kings,
So strong that it may overbear this right
Of each soul to itself. The holy place
Of the heart's temple no man lawfully
May enter, save he bear the high election
Of priest to the divinity within.
You have withheld from me; it was your right
And I have not complained. But now that you
Have razed the wall you chose should be between us,
I am more laureled and victorious
Than with ten empires or a thousand battles.
Ay, though the flower of my fair knights be lost,
Following a quest that few or none may gain,
Even Launcelot, my greatest—why, I have made
A fellowship that fifty knights were lost in.
And when our children take our place and theirs—

Guenevere.
Children!

Arthur.
Ay, sweetheart, when the throne of Britain
Shall have an heir to keep what we have won,
There'll not be fagots in the wood enough
To feed the bonfires. Guenevere, you have done
A deed to-night that sets a star i' the brow
Of womanhood, and rounds my dream of empire
To its proportioned close. I will not seize
My new-found joy too violently, to make
Your bounty, like the first buds of the spring
Met by a blast of March, shrink back again
And shrivel in the bark. Good night, sweet Queen,
And God be with us and our house!

[Exit.]
Guenevere.
Children?
To bear him children! No, God strike me dead!

CURTAIN.

ASTOLAT

An Idyllic Drama.

PERSONS.

• Arthur, King of Britain.
• Tristram, Knight of the Round Table
• Launcelot Du Lac, Knight of the Round Table
• Dubric, a Christian Priest.
• Taliesin, a Bard.
• Borre, son of Lionors, illegitimate son of Arthur, and disciple of Taliesin.
• The Dumb Man.
• Guenevere, Queen of Britain.
• Elaine.
• Iseult.

Author's Notes for Astolat.

First Main Action.—Re-establishment of relations between Launcelot and Guenevere.

Second Main Action.—Life and death of Elaine. (Pathos.)

Underplot.—Tristram and Iseult.

Leading persons in second main action the moral agents in resolving complication of first main action.

Personages of underplot the physical agents.

Tristram has brought his friend Launcelot to Elaine's to be cured, and visits him there.

Central idea.—The necessity for experience in order to come to one's self.

Insanity of Launcelot at beginning of play.

Guenevere.
It is God's will.

Launcelot.
Not from our wills it sprang,
This love of ours that overcame our will,
Then from the will of God—for every effect
Must have a will somewhere behind it.
Oh, Guenevere, in the sad separate days

When silence and absence had bred in my soul the thought of the possibility that you had ceased to love me, I have cried out in horrified imagination, “False, false!” Then, more just, moaned to myself, “All's not lost yet. I love her still. Who was I that she ever should have loved me?”

FATA MORGANA

A Masque

Hindoo/Unity/Sin/Thesis.

• Quest of Merlin.
• Girlhood of Guenevere.
• Brociliande.

Persian/Duality/Effects/Anthithesis.

• Holy Grail.
• Morte d'Arthur.
• The Descent into Hell.

Hellenic/Unity in Complexity/Resolutions/Synthesis.

• Arthur in Avalon.
• The New Earth.
• Voices of the Sea.

The Sailing of the Serpent (?)

ANGRO-MAINYUS

KING ARTHUR

A Tragedy

PERSONS.

• Arthur, King of Britain. Knight of the Round Table.
• Mordred, son of Arthur and Morgause. Knight of the Round Table.
• Gawaine, legitimate son of Morgause, nephew of Arthur. Knight of the Round Table.
• Agravaine, legitimate son of Morgause, nephew of Arthur. Knight of the Round Table.
• Gaheris, legitimate son of Morgause, nephew of Arthur. Knight of the Round Table.
• Gareth, legitimate son of Morgause, nephew of Arthur. Knight of the Round Table.
• Kaye, Arthur's foster-brother, Lord Senechal. Knight of the Round Table.
• Bedevere, of Arthur's party. Knight of the Round Table.
• Launcelot. Knight of the Round Table.
• Lionel, Launcelot's brother. Knight of the Round Table.
• Ector, Launcelot's brother. Knight of the Round Table.
• Bors, Launcelot's cousin. Knight of the Round Table.
• Lavaine, of Launcelot's party. Knight of the Round Table.
• Dagonet, the Jester. Knight of the Round Table.
• Wolfgar, a Saxon.
• Ghost of Gawaine.
• Guenevere, Queen of Britain.
• ---, her Damsel.
• Morgana, sister of Arthur, Queen of Gore, a Witch.
• Ghost of Morgause.

Scene: Camelot, Joyous Gard, and places between.
Time: Autumn.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Near Camelot. A Rocky Gorge in the Mountains. A Castle in the distance. Bugles. King Arthur. Knights and Attendants, in hunting dress, appear on a ledge, looking across the chasm at the ledge opposite, where the deer has leaped and disappeared. Huntsmen, with dogs, scramble down the side of the Gorge and begin to climb the opposite cliff,—with them Sir Lionel.
Huntsmen.
Hallo! Hallo! Illo-ho-ho! Hallo!

Lionel.
Send round your horses by the upper pass.
Dismount! This way—this way!

[King Arthur and others turn back with the horses, and are afterward heard further up, crossing the Gorge. Others, among them Sir Ector, Sir Agravaine, Sir Mordred, Sir Gawaine, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, follow Lionel. Gawaine falls in descending the rocks. Gaheris and Gareth rush to his assistance.]
Mordred
(aside to Agravaine).
Come back!

[Exeunt all but Gawaine, Gaheris, Gareth, Mordred and Agravaine.]
Ector
[without].
Illo-ho! [Bugles.]


Gareth.
Are you hurt, brother?

Gaheris.
Pray God, he be not killed!

Agravaine.
He is but stunned. [Gawaine stirs.]


Mordred.
Are you much hurt, Gawaine?

Gawaine.
I hardly know. Give me your hand again.
My head is light.—What, all my brothers out
O' the chase for me! This is too brotherly.

Mordred.
That was a perilous fall. Are no bones broken?

Gawain
[walking, moving his arms, etc.]
I fell no pain, only a numbness that
Is less already. Come, it is not too late
To overtake them yet.
[Starts quickly, staggers and holds out his hand to Mordred.]
Let me sit down.
There's something sprained here.

Mordred.
Rest you here a space;
And when your rebel nerves grow orderly,
We'll help you to a horse.

Gawaine.
It irks me much
That Lionel, not I, shall kill the deer.

Gareth.
Ector will press him close.

Gewaine
[with whimsical chagrin].
It will be Lionel;
But, Lionel or Ector, still not I.

Mordred.
Marked you that Launcelot is not with the hunt?

Gawaine.
What castle is that yonder?

Agravaine.
You know it well,—
Castle Carniffel.

Gaheris.
Where the King confines
Our Aunt, Morgana, whom they call the Fay.

Gawaine.
What, have we come so far?

Mordred.
Confines? He might
Confine as well the air.

Gareth.
Weird tales are told
Of her enchantments there. Men say, she is seen
I' the clouds, and builds strange palaces of mist
Shot through with sunlight; the which, as you approach,
Melt into hideous shapes of boar and fish,
Beaked horrors, jowled and jag-browed monstrousness;
And at a sudden all will disappear
And the bare world jut forth like a baseless dream.

Gawaine.
Why, since she dwells so near, for all men's tales,
We'll claim her hospitality.

Garath.
The King
Will take it ill that any of his knights
—Most, we that are his kin—should have to do
With one in his displeasure.

Gawaine.
I meddle not
With their dissension. She is yet our aunt
As well as the King's sister. She will hardly
Bar us the door. Come, rest we there to-night.

[They wind the morte without.]
Mordred.
The deer is slain. This was a goodly chase.
The day is nearly over. Launcelot
Has lacked good sport. I marvel he came not.

Agravaine.
I marvel not; nor do you neither, brother,
If you would speak your heart. And as for sport,
Our hunting is the manlier, and yet
I think he would not say he had lacked sport.

Gawaine.
Do I mistake or does the west begin
To show a faint flush o'er the mountain tops?

Agravaine.
I wonder that we are not all ashamed
To see how Launcelot dallies by the Queen
Daily and nightly, and we all know it so.
By God, it is disloyal of us all
That we should suffer such a noble king
To be so shamed!

Gawaine.
Pray you, no more of this.
I am not of your counsel, you know well.

Gareth.
So help me God, I will not go with you.

Gaheris.
Nor I.

Mordred.
Then I will.

Gawaine.
I believe that well;
For never yet was brood of mischief got,
Thou didst not run to dandle it. Would ye both
Would be less busy, for too well I know
What will befall of it.

Agravaine.
Fall what fall may,
I will unfold it to the King.

Gawaine.
Nay, hear me;
And do not in your folly pull your vengeance
Down on yourselves and all of us. Imperil not
The empire. Know you not, if war arise
'Twixt Launcelot and our house, how many lords,
Great princes and the knightliest of our order,
Will hold with Launcelot? Brother, Sir Agravaine,
You cannot have forgot how many times
He hath delivered Arthur and the Queen.
Ay, and the best of us full oft had been
Cold at the heart-root, had not Launcelot
Been by to prove a better knight than we.
Ungrateful as ye are, do ye forget
How when ye both and threescore others lay
Chained in that cruel dungeon of Penmore—
Who was it then but Launcelot whose might
Saved you from death in torments? Brother, methinks
It claims a memory.

Agravaine.
Do as ye list;
I will not hide it longer.
[Bugles.]
[Enter King Arthur, Knights and Huntsmen, with the deer.]
Song.
Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
When the horn is on the hill?
[Bugle: Tarantara.]
With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
And a ten-tined buck to kill!
Before the sun goes down, goes down,
We shall slay the buck of ten;
[Bugle: Tarantara.]
And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison,
When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease,
Keep close and house him fair;
[Bugle: Tarantara.]
He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger
And the joy of the open air.
But he that loves the hills, the hills,
Let him come out to-day.
[Bugle: Tarantara.]
For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,
And the hunt's up and away.
[Exeunt Huntsmen with deer, the Knights following dispersedly. The King observes Gawaine and his brothers, who converse apart.]
Gawaine.
Be silent, brother.

Agravaine.
I will not.

Mordred.
Nor will I.

Gawaine.
Then go your gait!
I will not hear your scandals nor abet you.

Gaheris.
Nor I.

Gareth.
Nor I, for I will ne'er speak evil
Of Launcelot. Alas, now is the fate
Fallen on the Kingdom.

Gawaine.
And the fellowship
Of the Round Table shall be clean dispersed.

[Exeunt Gawaine, Gaheris and Gareth.]
Arthur.
What quarrel is this, nephews?

Agravaine.
Sir, we conceived,
Mordred and I, that duty is to speak,
Not easy pleasant words men love us for,
But bitter truth and hard to him that hears
And perilous to the speaker.

Arthur.
Assuredly:
He that deceives me of the enemy's force
To save me from to-day's discouragement,
Jeopards my cause to-morrow.

Agravain.
Sir, our three brothers
Held otherwise and, as you saw, for this
Fell out with us and left us.

Arthur.
For naught else?
Why, 'tis but thought. Think wrongly as you will,
You harm no one in that. But men will seek
Occasion for dispute in pimpernels
Ere they will lack a quarrel.

Mordred.
Put it that
A man had in his treasury much gold
And thought no more on't, having at his belt
The key that kept all safely; yet there was
An ingress to his hoard he knew not of,
And secretly by night another came
Thereby and spoiled him. He, good soul, secure
In bolts and bars, rich only in conceit,
Went, carrying his key to empty space,
And dreamt no evil. Were it well or no
To break in roughly on his easy smiling
With “Sir, you are robbed! Too late to save your gold,
But time, small comfort, yet to catch the thief”?

Arthur.
Why, who would be the fool of dreams? Surely
The waking world whose shows betray us not
Is better than a sleep where we may walk
O'er any brink to death.

Mordred.
[Kneeling.]
Sire, your own words
For pardon if our speech offend! Yourself
Are he that keeps the key of the rifled room,
Your Queen the gold, and he that pilfers her
—Alas, to say 't!—your bravest knight, your friend, Launcelot.

Arthur.
Sirs, ye are bold to brave me thus.
Reck ye the danger?

Agravaine.
We speak that we do know.
Our lives be forfeit if it prove not true.

Mordred.
Upon your hint I spoke. Lay not to us
Aught other end but honor. Are we not
Your sister's sons?—what more, but let that pass.—

Agravaine.
This concerns us and all our house as well
As you, King Arthur. If you do us wrong,
Will men think you do shame to your own blood,
Unless for some strange secret?

Arthur.
Will you dare?
Before me?—Have my kindred been so leal
That I should make them keepers of my honor?

Mordred.
The bond of blood abides. I do but dread
Lest others should say this; and say besides
Your love for Launcelot had made you rather
Be ignorant, so you might deem him true,
Than seek the truth that haply might reveal
Him traitor—doubly traitor that your love,
Yours whom he wrongs, so shield him. God be witness
I speak not only for my honor's sake,
Being of your blood, but for the love I bear you.

Arthur.
Son, son, if I could trust you! What you work
That I hold evil, may seem good to you;
At least I will believe so. But to be
Assured you love me, to have evidence
Your crooked seeming cloaks nobility,
That would so rest my heart I could endure
What else ill chance shall bring, and think it light.

Mordred.
God pardon me my life and all amiss
I have done in it; and you too, my lord,
Pardon me. But in this I do no evil.
My heart swells like a troubled sea to think
That you should be so wronged.

Arthur.
I have such will
That you should be as fair as you would seem,
I make my hope half credence. For this tale
Of Launcelot and my Queen, I long have known
There were such slanders in the court, and paid
Small heed to them. Ye know not Launcelot.
Were the devotion that he shows the Queen
Tenfold what it hath been—nay, if he loved her
As you would have it that he does, he would
Not trespass on my right. I might to-day
Depart my kingdom and leave Guenevere
With him till my return, and be as safe
As had I left her in a nunnery.

Mordred.
Alas, that such a noble trust should be
So traitorously rewarded! Send word
You'll not return to Camelot to-day,
But spend the night in yonder castle. Indeed,
'Twill be dark traveling if we do return,
For see, the sun is setting. Launcelot
Will haste to Guenevere. Sir Agravaine
And I will, with twelve others, secretly
Steal back to Camelot, leaving you here,
And take them in the deed. If we should fail,
Then we will answer Launcelot in the lists
With the appeal to arms.

Arthur.
That would mean death
To both of you.

Mordred.
Right well we know it, Sire,
Unless God fought with us.

Arthur.
Well, be it so.
Cost what it may, the scandal must be stopped
By proof or disproof.

Mordred.
Go to the castle;
Sir Agravaine will guide you. I will send
The courier to the Queen, recall the knights
And bid them join you yonder.

Arthur.
Is not that
The castle of Morgana?

Mordred.
It is yours, Sire;
You are the King.

Arthur.
Be it so.
Come, Agravaine. And thou, Sir Mordred, pray
That you may live to see the end of this.

[Exeunt Arthur and Agravaine. The sunset has faded away into one dull red line. The scene darkens. A lone bugle sounds far down the pass.]
Mordred.
Well played and won!—Now to recall the knights.
[Sounds his bugle and waits, listening. Two ravens, startled, flap their wings and fly about, croaking, in the tree-tops. A bugle without answers. Mordred blows a second time and looks up, as the ravens stir again above.]
Men say ye are the Devil's ministers
And run upon his errands. Seek him, then,
And croak the news in Hell! Soft, I mistake;
For I serve Heaven. I but bring to pass
God's justice on the scorners of His law.
[Enter a Huntsman. The ravens stir and croak again.]
The King to-night returns not to the palace.
Go, call the hunt together and convey them
To yonder castle on the cliff. Make speed!
[Exit Huntsman.]
Brr! It grows dark apace, and the night air
Makes the flesh creep and shiver.

[Bugles, off, calling and answering. The ravens suddenly rise, croak and fly away with a great flapping of their wings.]
[Enter Morgana. Mordred starts and fingers his sword-hilt nervously.]
Morgana.
It is I, Mordred.
Gawaine is at the castle. So I learned
That you were here, parted from him in anger.

Mordred.
Ay, we have lost him. Agravaine must needs,
Like a blunt fool, blurt out what I had else
With craft suggested. Our over-nice Gawaine,
I fear, is frighted to the other side.
But Arthur has been won.
[Bugles, off, calling and answering.]
Hear you the horns?
They sound the prelude of our mastery.
I, seeing the wind in the sails, jumped to the helm
And guided all through safely. Ere the King
Could hear of aught from others, I so wrought
He yielded to our plan.

Morgana.
When is it to be?

[The wind rises in the trees. Noises of the night. An occasional bugle far off. Lights appear at the castle.]
Mordred.
To-night. The King sleeps at your castle. I,
With Agravaine and twelve beside, return
To Camelot, where we do think to take
The Queen and Launcelot.

Morgana.
I would it had
Been later. Yet the auguries are well.
My prescience bodes some mishap on the way;
But you shall win. Last night, being in a trance,
[An owl hoots.]
I saw your mother's spirit. And she cried
Out with a loud voice, “Mordred! Mordred! Mordred!
Through him his father's ancient wrong to me
Shall be avenged.”

Mordred.
Ay, but the crown, the crown!

Morgana.
“Let him fear not,” she cried. “He shall be crowned.
The King shall have no child by Guevenere;
But shall renounce her, and acknowledge Mordred,
Though bastard, for his heir.”

Mordred.
It shall go hard
But I will make the prophecy come true.
Come to the castle!

[Exeunt. Noises of the night. The scene closes.]

Scene II.

—Camelot. The Queen's Apartments: A room with heavy paneling of oak and great oaken rafters. The walls are hung with tapestries. At the left a window, showing the heavy masonry of which the building is constructed. At the right a door with hangings, leading into other rooms of the suite. At the center, a heavy barred door, that opens into the general corridors. In the alcove, couch nearly concealed with hangings. Low seats covered with skins, etc.
Launcelot and Guenevere.
Guenevere.
And still you do not speak.
Think you of him?—the King? Must I believe
You love him more than me?

Launcelot.
Oh, Guenevere!—
Your bond to him is formal, mine as real
As—God in heaven! as real as mine to you.

Guenevere.

AVALON

A Harmonody

Arthur.
I have laid in a long mistake.
But now at last and suddenly I see.

Argent.
[States the great law of suddenness in appearance. Reconciliation of Plutonic and Neptunian theories (vide Hartmann's Unconscious). Slow preparation in the unconscious. Conscious sudden at end of process.]


Launcelot.
The atmosphere of souls, the ether
In which they swim like stars, is God himself.
In Him they live and move and have their being.
The power that holds each spirit in its place
And melts the heaven of souls in harmony
Is love that draws each spirit to its neighbor;
And as the various spaces of the stars,
So soul from soul is variously severed.
I love my fellows as earth loves the stars
That move far off in their own silent courses,
Shedding on us a mild beneficence;
Others I love as earth loves Uranus,
Mars, Venus, Mercury, Saturn and the sun,
For these are nearer to me and their courses
Inextricably intertwined with mine.
But thee, my sweet, my greatest heart of women,
Thee do I love as the earth loves the moon.
[OMITTED]
And yet the earth hath something of its own
It never told the moon, and the moon hides
A silent secret in its charmed heart
The earth can never know.
[OMITTED]

Guenevere.
And Galahad, thy son, who died a maid?
Shall he be ever lonely?

Launcelot.
For him too
Some mystic lady waits in Avalon,
That dim mysterious mother-land of forms.
[OMITTED]

Launcelot.
Arthur in Avalon has found his bride,
And there is peace between his soul and mine.
[OMITTED]

Launcelot.
It doth not now repent me of my sins;
They oft were my salvation. But for them
I might have lain forever in my dream
In the child-hearted valleys. They, like wolves,
Roused me from my as yet unearned repose
And drove me toiling up this arduous hill
Where from the summit now mine eyes look out
At peace upon a peaceful universe.
Nay, sweet, our sins are but God's thunder-clouds,
That hide the glorious sun a little while;
And afterwards the fields bring forth their fruit.